


The Reign of King Aragorn

by imaginary_golux



Series: Coats and Customs 'verse [8]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, Female Boromir, M/M, OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-28 05:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 24,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_golux/pseuds/imaginary_golux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Picking up right after The King In Waiting: now Aragorn is king.  Did we really think that was the end of his problems?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End of the Party

Aragorn is sad to see his guests leave, for the most part, but since they all have their own countries to oversee, he knows they can’t stay long. Theoden actually leaves first, though he has the shortest way to go – Morwen Steelsheen is not young, and it is not fair to her to leave all of the pressure of ruling upon her shoulders. Before he goes, Theoden signs an alliance treaty with Aragorn, promising that Rohan will be Gondor’s friend as long as Aragorn and his heirs sit on the throne. Aragorn knows that politics aren’t always clear-cut, but being firm allies with their nearest neighbor can only be to the good – and Boromir would be quite put out if her relationship with Eomer was compromised by a conflict between their countries.

Fili leaves next, though he does not take his son with him: young Thrain will be going home with Thorin and Bilbo, to be the heir to Belegost’s throne. Fili’s younger son will be the heir to Moria. There is something special about the younger son, Aragorn knows, but none of the dwarves will tell him _what_. None of his business, really, Aragorn supposes; in any case, Fili has signed a very favorable trade treaty, and Aragorn is looking forward to having the high-grade ores and gems of Moria available to the smiths and artisans of Gondor.

Galadriel promises before she leaves that Lorien will always be a friend to Gondor…as long as her granddaughter is happy, of course. Aragorn is pretty sure that if Arwen is not happy, the wrath of the Lady of Lorien will be as the earthquake: unpredictable, terrible, unstoppable, and awe-inspiring. Thankfully, Aragorn is also sure that he would rather die than make Arwen unhappy, so the threat of Lady Galadriel’s vengeance is slight less worrisome than it might otherwise have been.

Thorin and Bilbo and their entourage leave with many promises of friendship, though it is a long way from Belegost to Gondor, and Moria is a closer source for dwarf-mined ores. Still, the Shire’s expertise in farming might someday be useful to the people of Gondor, and Aragorn promises to write to them often.

Before they leave, Gimli back to Belegost and Legolas to his own Greenwood, the unlikely couple comes to Aragorn for a few private words. Legolas does most of the talking.

“Someday, and I think perhaps someday soon, as elves reckon time,” he says solemnly, “I think that I and my beloved will have to find our own place, far from Belegost and the Greenwood, where there will be none to look askance at us for our love.” Aragorn nods; certainly he has seen the odd looks that Gimli and Legolas have been getting from all and sundry. Legolas takes a deep breath. “On the farthest western edge of the White Mountains, past the Gap of Rohan, there is a place with forested hills and deep caverns, claimed by no one since your Majesty has chosen not to claim Arnor. We would be grateful if you could see your way clear to letting us lay claim to that land.”

Aragorn considers. On the one hand, he wants to agree immediately: he likes Legolas and Gimli well, and thinks that they should be able to live together as they please. But he is a king now, and kings must not be impulsive. “I would have to consult with Theoden of Rohan,” he replies slowly, “and I think that both of us would desire treaties of great strength, promising trade and peace and mutual guardianship forever. But, in the event that you do come south with those who follow you, I think that something might be arranged.”

Legolas and Gimli bow and go away looking greatly relieved, and Aragorn makes a mental note to speak to Theoden about this as soon as possible – for if elves have a different idea of what ‘soon’ means, still it behooves Aragorn to be ready for the creation of a new polity on his western border. How would an elven/dwarven kingdom be ruled anyway?

Legolas leaves soon after the delegation from Belegost does, in company with Girion of Dale, and Dolur son of Bombur follows them a few days later – it would not behoove an envoy of Erebor to seem friendly with an elf of the Greenwood, not with the tension between those kingdoms. All leave promises of friendship with Aragorn, but there is little enough trade between the far northern kingdoms and Gondor – there are waterfalls and marshes in the way, after all.

The Haradrim envoys, to Aragorn’s surprise and slight dismay, express a desire to remain in Minas Tirith for some time, to “strengthen their ties with Gondor.” Aragorn is pretty sure that’s not _actually_ what they want, given that they have exchanged only the barest minimum pleasantries with him and have been spending some fairly significant time with some of the nobles who are less enamored of Aragorn’s new regime, but that’s not enough evidence to kick them out. Boromir assigns some of the newly-recruited spies to shadow the Haradrim envoys, and Aragorn tries to put it out of his mind unless and until the spies bring him bad news.

Elrond stays quite a while, making sure that Arwen has settled into her new home happily, and intimidating pretty much the entire court, though Aragorn thinks that might be accidental. Glorfindel explores the city, and by the end of their stay he has a collection of street urchins who follow him around in the hopes that he will tell them stories of the great battles he has won. Glorfindel, by no means immune to the pleading stares of children, often obliges. Eventually, Arwen has a very private talk with her father, one which Aragorn is distinctly not privy to, and a few days later, Elrond and Glorfindel take their leave. Aragorn carefully never asks what Arwen said.

Then there is only Gilraen left of their guests, and Aragorn goes to her with his plans.

“I cannot be in charge of the Dunedain _and_ be king in Minas Tirith,” he tells her. “Perhaps technically I am their leader, but I have not lived with them, I cannot command them effectively. You, however, are a respected leader among them, I know it.”

Gilraen smiles at her son. “You give yourself too little credit,” she replies, “but I can see how being king of Gondor might give you little time for taking command of the Dunedain. What would you have me do?”

“Take them west,” he says. “Set up a central post in Erech, perhaps, just south of the mountains, and send the Dunedain across the length and breadth of Gondor. Let them be my eyes and my hands and my voice in the places where the lords do not yet heed me. Send them to be judges and teachers, warriors and healers, across my lands, until I can build a corps of Gondorians to take their place.”

Slowly, Gilraen nods. “Yes, and they will bring their reports to me, and I will send them on to you, that you may know what is going on in your kingdom, though your lords may lie to you. That is not a bad plan, my son – and it will get me out of Minas Tirith! I grow weary of the constant hero-worship. Did you know there are _songs_ about me?”

Aragorn grins, broad and cheerful and mischievous. “Are there? My goodness, I had no idea. No, wait, there was one that I learned years ago…shall I sing it for you?”

Gilraen drops her head into her hands. “No!” she says firmly. “No singing!”

“But it’s such a very uplifting song,” Aragorn wheedles, and his mother begins to laugh.

“Gondor is a bad influence on you, I see,” she teases back, lifting her head again. “Once upon a time you would never have made fun of your old mother.”

Aragorn hugs her tightly. “You will always be a hero to me,” he tells her softly. “I would trust no one else with the Dunedain – no one else with the safety of my kingdom.”

She hugs him back, sniffling a little. “My son and king,” she replies, “I and the Dunedain will be your hands and your eyes and your voice across your kingdom, for as long as you need us to.”


	2. The Steward and the Council

Aragorn is actually a little surprised, though he probably shouldn’t be, when Ecthelion comes to him to resign his position as Steward.

“I am an old man,” he tells Aragorn, “and I have seen more than I ever wanted to in my lifetime. My grandson is young and vigorous and not such a fool as his father was…nor as his grandfather is. Let him take my place, or a new place, as pleases his king; and let me go and spend my declining years in peace, far from the court and its intrigues. I am tired, Aragorn son of Arathorn, King of Gondor; let me resign.”

Aragorn does, of course; he gives Ecthelion a fine pension and offers him housing in the palace, which Ecthelion declines, saying he will stay with one of his daughters in Linhir. Barely a week later, to Aragorn’s faint dismay, Ecthelion is gone, leaving his well-trained staff behind with orders to obey Aragorn as they always have Ecthelion, and Aragorn cannot help feeling just a little adrift without the staunch support of the old Steward.

Still, Aragorn is king whether or not Ecthelion is Steward, and so he names Faramir as Ecthelion’s successor, and sends his young friend south to Pelargir on the Anduin, to be his eyes in the south as Gilraen is in the west. He sends one of the palantiri with Faramir, since while Gilraen has the Dunedain to be swift messengers, Faramir is going into a strange place with very little backup, and Aragorn wants to know what is going on in his kingdom as comprehensively and swiftly as possible.

Eowyn – wild Eowyn – follows her lover, of course. Aragorn would worry more about that except for the fact that Boromir mentions, quietly, that their fledgling spy network has many uses for a brash, outspoken, highly intelligent young woman who doesn’t mind stirring up a little trouble in a good cause.

Well, actually that just makes Aragorn _differently_ worried, but if Eowyn has found a job which suits her and allows her to stay with Faramir, well, that’s about as much as Aragorn or Theoden could hope for. Goodness knows expecting her to settle down and be a housewife would go about as well as keeping a warg as a child’s pet.

It is very odd not to have Faramir at his side, as he has been since Aragorn reached Minas Tirith; Boromir looks a little unbalanced without her little brother constantly at hand. This is, after all, the first time they have been separated for any length of time, and though Aragorn is more than happy to let them use the palantiri to speak with each other, it’s still jarring for everyone involved. But Aragorn needs someone he trusts in the port city of Pelargir, and the list of people in Minas Tirith that he actually _trusts_ , Boromir’s constant fretting notwithstanding, is short.

*

Arwen is still adjusting to her new city, her new kingdom, and her new people. Some of the adjustment is simply the oddness of Men: their short lives, their swift speech, their constant movement and astonishing fertility. The years she spent wandering Gondor at Aragorn’s side are useful there, since she can think of the crowded streets of Minas Tirith as a much larger version of market day in a village, or the bickering of the courtiers as small town conflicts writ large. Elves do not act so, or at least not anymore, and she was born well after the great wars of her ancestors; but she can learn to deal with it. She _will_ learn to deal with it.

Harder to deal with is the strange and firmly held opinion among the nobles of the kingdom that women should be seen and not heard, kept sequestered in their bowers and stillrooms and certainly not listened to on the political stage. This is baffling and frustrating for Arwen, granddaughter of Galadriel, who has never felt like her words were discounted because of her gender. Why should they be?

Thankfully, Aragorn is firmly on Arwen’s side (how could he not be, as Gilraen’s son?), and it is his idea to let her run the council meeting while he is off speaking with the Guard. Arwen is actually rather looking forward to the council meeting. She knows full well that many of the councilors are going to throw fits at the idea that she is allowed to have authority on her own, without her husband’s constant oversight, and she will take _great pleasure_ in impressing upon them exactly how wrong they are.

*

Mardi has been assigned, tentatively and subject to change, as the head of Arwen’s as-yet miniscule bodyguard. She rather likes the job, as Queen Arwen is a kind and clever lady, and has a wicked if quiet sense of humor. Mardi is _definitely_ looking forward to the coming council meeting, wherein she fully expects Arwen to deliver a righteous bollocking to the forces of bigotry and imbecility…the same men who have consistently refused to admit Mardi to the Guard. If anyone deserves a comeuppance, as far as Mardi is concerned, it’s the old men on the council who will not hear of women taking up arms.

Mardi does not forget, and she does not forgive.

*

Arwen waits for the council at the head of the table. Aragorn’s chair has been removed, and there is only the one tall chair for her, with no suggestion that anyone else has a right to be there. When Aragorn is there, of course, either both chairs will be present or else Arwen’s chair will be gone, but Arwen wishes to make a point today.

She keeps her face expressionless as they file in. Men often have a hard time reading the expressions of the elven folk, but Arwen’s blank face is a credit to her race; even her father has had trouble reading her when she doesn’t want to be read. Mardi, standing behind her at parade rest, is also keeping her face as unreadable as possible. Arwen coached her carefully ahead of time.

It is old Lord Marren who speaks first, when all the lords have taken their seats and stared for long moments at the place where Aragorn’s chair is not. “My lady,” he begins, and Arwen notes the lack of her proper honorific, “where is the king?”

“My husband is speaking with the City Guard this afternoon,” Arwen replies calmly. “I will therefore be heading this meeting of the council.”

Lord Marren sputters. Other lords join in the protests, some more articulately than others. Arwen stays silent until they have all run out of words and devolved into twitching silence, and smiles.

“I will either be running this meeting, or I will be instructing the City Guard,” she says to their livid faces. “My husband and I judged that this arrangement would be less disruptive, but if you cannot function under your queen’s rule, I will certainly take that into consideration.”

The sputtering restarts, and Arwen can’t quite tell what has appalled the lords more: the idea that she was even considered as an authority over the City Guard (a woman! Over warriors!) or the fact that she is sitting here in front of them asserting her authority over _them_. Gondor has not had a ruling queen in a very long time, and Arwen is going to have such fun reminding these fools that she is her husband’s equal by law, Queen to his King, with all the rights and powers appertaining to that title.

*

The meeting goes fairly well after that, though to be fair, that’s probably because most of the lords are so busy trying not to have apoplexy that they can’t actually speak. Still, Arwen is willing to take it as a victory. By the time she dismisses the council and watches the much chastened men file out of the room, she is having a hard time keeping her face blank and unreadable: the grin of triumph wants to break free.

*

That witch. That conniving, horrible blank-faced _witch_ , coming in to take over the kingdom like it’s her right, overturning how many hundreds of years of custom and tradition – and how should Gondor stand without her traditions to keep her strong? How should each man know where his destiny lies if it is not where his ancestors prepared it? And yet she thinks she can come in and poison the king’s mind, and now – now she intrudes even into the government, into the very realm of men, and sits there like a stone statue and says outrageous things with that mannish outrage behind her with a hand on her sword.

It is appalling. It is infuriating. It is _intolerable_.


	3. The Guard and the Bodyguard

Aragorn is glad to see that Arwen looks happy when she arrives for dinner. He is always glad to see his wife happy, of course – and not only because he knows Lady Galadriel will take it out of his hide if her granddaughter is not well treated – but in this case it’s a good antidote to his own gloom.

Arwen notices how downcast he is immediately, of course, and lays a gentle hand on his arm. “Did your meeting with the Guard not go well, my love?”

Aragorn sighs. “They would not hear of women. No, they said, women cannot be suited to the Guard – Mardi and Boromir and Eowyn my mother and your own self notwithstanding – and one after another claimed that women are weak and their minds are frail, that they would distract the men from their duties, that no women would care to take such dangerous jobs, and that no men worth the name would let them do so. The long and short of it was that they would not take any women into the Guard, now or ever, and that so many of the common Guardsmen supported that view that were I to purge them all from the Guard’s ranks, there would be no Guard worth speaking of left to fight.” He puts his head in his hands.

Arwen sighs and shifts over so she can put an arm around his shoulders. “If it makes you feel any better, I put the fear of, well, me into the councilors today. They, at least, should not give you any trouble about having women in positions of power, or in roles which are usually given to men.”

Aragorn chuckles a little, but does not raise his head. “The worst part, my dearest, is that I have already heard, from Mardi and from some of the servants, of women who have long dreamed of taking up arms, even as Mardi did. I have promised them nothing aloud, but in my heart I have promised them places, and now I cannot fulfill that promise.”

Arwen hums in thought, then looks up as Mardi passes by the door on one of her circuits around the room. “I have it,” she says softly. “Not a perfect solution, but something.”

Aragorn raises his head to look at her, hope bright in his eyes. “Tell me,” he says.

“I need a larger bodyguard,” Arwen says slowly, “we both know it. And ladies in waiting, I suppose. Let us use your people’s preconceptions against them. Recruit me an all-female bodyguard, as many as wish to be in it. Let Mardi and Boromir train them – and I will as well – and we will uniform and equip them as well as the Guard is armed. If five hundred women of Gondor come to guard me, then I shall have five hundred bodyguards – and you, my love and king, will have a little army at your beck and call, for whatever you shall need. Perhaps there will come a time when they may prove their worth to the City Guard; but until that day, still there will be a place for those women so brave as to stand up and take it.”

“And the lords will think nothing of it but that you desire women around you,” Aragorn continues her thought joyfully. “Yes, let it be done; and your warrior women shall be sung of someday, I am sure of it.”

Arwen laughs a little. “Let us hope not, for the deeds of which songs are made are not done in times of peace,” she replies, but she kisses him for the thought nonetheless.

And so it is decided.

*

Mardi has to admit that she’s looking forward to being the head of a much-expanded, all-female bodyguard for her new queen. Arwen is a lovely woman, graceful and deadly and terrifyingly smart, and Mardi is proud to stand at her back. The women who are coming in to apply for bodyguard positions range from fresh-faced sixteen-year-olds to women older than Mardi, and all of them have a fire in their eyes which Mardi knows intimately. Perhaps they did not spend twenty years striving for a position in the Guard, but that does not mean they didn’t want one, passionately. All of them are grateful beyond words for this new opportunity.

Really, as far as Mardi is concerned, her life has only improved since Aragorn son of Arathorn first claimed his throne, and she’s quite content with it, honestly…

Except for one thing.

Mardi has never really spent much time around other women, besides her mother and her sister, because most of them had such different interests that Mardi could never find anything to talk about; and in any case, Mardi knows full well that as her frustration with the Guard grew over the years, she became steadily less pleasant to be around. Obviously that’s gotten better recently, since Mardi no longer wants to hit things out of sheer anger on a regular basis anymore, but that does leave her with something of a dearth of experiences.

Normally, this would not be a problem. But just not, Mardi would _really_ like to know exactly how most women would go about…cultivating a special friendship with someone.

Arwen’s official seamstress, one of the three who made her dress, is a woman named Elia. She is tall and slender and graceful, and there is an air of competence and confidence about her. She has no interest in learning to fight – Arwen asked – but she is a sorceress with her needle, and nothing comes from her hands which is not both beautiful and comfortable. She hides pockets in Arwen’s gowns and fits the cloth to Arwen so perfectly that the queen could, if need be, fight a duel without ruining her skirts.

Mardi thinks she’s marvelous. Elia takes no nonsense, never prevaricates, and is perfectly upfront about her skills. She knows she’s the best in the city, which means the best in Gondor, and she’s proud of that – but at the same time, Mardi has seen her be unfailingly kind to her assistants, to the servants, to everyone around her.

Mardi would really, really like to get to know Elia better. But what sort of gifts, or notes, or approaches would be appropriate? And would the queen’s seamstress, mistress of her craft, even be interested in a bodyguard?

*

Elia is not expecting a package, but the runner is insistent that this one is for her. It’s heavy and oddly flexible, and Elia takes it curiously. There is a note, but it reads simply, “For the Queen’s Seamstress, Elia,” and nothing more.

Elia unwraps it carefully, and blinks at the objects lying across her workbench. Why would someone send her a pair of fingerless chainmail gloves? They are well-made, and the chainmail is worked into an elegant pattern, but what use could Elia _possibly_ have for them?

How exceedingly odd.


	4. Taxes and Spies

Mardi feels a little awkward about suggesting her younger sister to be one of the king’s new spy network, but there are a number of things going for Rian: she’s smart as a tack, she’s immensely loyal to the king (and to Lady Gilraen), and her yarn shop has customers from every noble house in the city. Even the queen’s own seamstress shops there. And every single one of the customers (except maybe Elia) spends an extra few minutes with the charming owner of the shop, chatting over tea. Rian likes to gossip, and she’s very good at saying only just enough to keep the other person talking, without ever giving anything away herself. It’s a skill Mardi has never had, and often in the days she carded wool in the corner of her sister’s shop, she listened with awe as Rian drew the life stories of her customers out of them and sent them on their way smiling, with their arms full of yarn.

To Mardi’s pleasure, both Aragorn and Arwen agree instantly that Rian sounds like a good fit, and the next time Mardi goes home for dinner on her day off, Rian pulls her aside and thanks her, quietly, for the ‘recent recommendation.’ Mardi grins and hugs her little sister, glad as always that Rian’s life has not been nearly as hard as her own. Rian never does tell Mardi any of the details of what she learns and passes on to the Spymaster in the palace, and really Mardi thinks that’s just as well: Mardi’s job is to distrust everyone, after all, and if she knows that one or another of the lords is getting ideas, well, she might forget to keep her eye on another of them, who might just be being quieter about his treason. Better to watch everyone equally.

*

If the attempt to allow women into the Guard went badly, Aragorn doesn’t want to know what the word for the reaction to his recent tax reforms is. Appalling, perhaps. Awful. Just plain horrifying.

It’s a relatively simple set of changes – and some of the reforms aren’t even changes, just a reversion to the way taxes _used_ to be allocated and collected a thousand years ago. Gondor has always had a wonderfully organized bureaucracy, and Aragorn has spent many dusty hours in the deep catacombs, reading the faded script of ancient tax collectors and taking reams upon reams of notes.

He wants to lessen the burden on the farmers, for starters – he cannot help but remember Berthold and the way his lord never sent any flood relief, but expected the normal taxes despite the disaster. The merchants and nobles can stand to be taxed more heavily, and the increased revenue can be spent on any number of things: a college for healers, for instance, and arms and trainers for village militias, and a disaster relief system. Things which would help everyone.

Unfortunately, most of the lords of Gondor are _not amused_ by the suggestion that they give up any of their traditional privileges – like a freedom from taxation on any number of profitable endeavors. Aragorn, who has never quite grasped the human (and, to be fair, dwarven) love of money, is baffled that the lords are so appalled at the idea of losing even a tiny portion of their income. They will all still be rich and powerful and control trade routes and vast swathes of land: what is a few thousand gold a year, one way or the other?

Boromir barks a laugh when he says that aloud, and shakes her head. “It’s not about the _money_ , my king,” she says bitterly. “It’s about the power. You’re taking something away from them, and none of them are used to having things taken from them. Even a small thing can seem great, when nothing like this has been done in living memory. They know you are the king, but they are all hoping that you will be as easy to control as my grandfather was, as willing to let the current ways go on forever. You’re scaring them.”

Aragorn sighs heavily. It seems sometimes that he and his kingdom are destined to be eternally at odds. Still, these are things he _will_ have done, and he will begin as he means to go on. If the lords will not heed gentle words, he will prove that he has harsher.

*

It is Rian, though Mardi never learns this, who brings word of the conspiracy to the king. A certain group of lords – and it surprises no one which they are – have begun to speak, among their friends and family, where they think it safe, of how the foreign witch has bewitched the king – how Aragorn and his sorcerous wife must be overthrown for the good of the kingdom. No one actually believes the rhetoric, as far as Aragorn’s people can tell, but it’s a good cover for the real reasons for the unrest.

It’s also _guaranteed_ to enrage the king. If the lords had merely been insulting Aragorn’s policies or perceived inadequacies, well, Aragorn has a fairly good sense of self-esteem and knows he’s doing the very best he can for his people. But threatening _Arwen_ …well.

Aragorn is not the sort of king to go around beheading his people. If nothing else, at this point that would just inflame the _rest_ of the lords against him. But threatening Arwen is unacceptable.

*

The word goes through the court like wildfire: Lord Marren and his four closest confidantes, the people behind the recent rumors about Queen Arwen, have been stripped of their court positions. Their lands have been taken from them and given to lower-ranking lords who are more loyal to the king. And, since under the laws of the land a lord cannot be made destitute without proof of treason, they have all been given lands away to the south of the Anduin, an arid place full of bandits, and invited – pointedly – to go and spend a few years, perhaps twenty or thirty, overseeing their new lands.

Certain lords who had been wondering if the king actually had teeth to back up his ambitious plans are suddenly seen to be much, much more obsequious, at least in public. No lord wants to think of losing his ancestral lands, and southern Gondor is commonly considered to be a dreadful place, a punishment nearly as bad as full banishment. Other lords, who have been perfectly proper in public all along, if rather dismissive of the queen, are rather abruptly making efforts to get on her good side. Whether or not she is _actually_ a sorceress, apparently His Majesty reacts _strongly_ to threats against her. That is very good to know.

*

Elia looks down at the package on her workbench and frowns. Again, it has no note except her name and title; again, it is wrapped in plain brown fabric and tied neatly but not elegantly with twine.

When she finally gives in to her curiosity, she finds a box under the wrapping, well-made and sturdy, and within it…a dagger. Quite a good-quality dagger, with an emerald inlaid into the hilt and gold wire decorations over the leather grip, and a matching leather scabbard, but still. What does a seamstress need with a _dagger_?

She puts it with the chainmail gloves, up on a high shelf, and puts it from her mind for now. She has dresses to make, after all.

Still. How _very_ queer.


	5. Jonquil

Jonquil is in the library again. This is not merely because he likes to read – though he does – but also because there is a corner of the library which is very nearly walled off by bookshelves. The only way to get in is through a tiny gap between two shelves, one much too small for most of his family, especially his father or brothers, to squeeze through. If Jonquil himself were not so thin and weak, he could never fit. Inside the little hideaway, there is a window and a window-seat, and a little basket which Jonquil keeps bread and dried meat in, and a stack of books. It is, in short, an absolutely perfect hiding place, and one which no one in his family has ever discovered.

At the moment, it is less comfortable than it normally is. His father, of all people, Ulbar the strong, has actually entered the library to speak with his mother. Jonquil is more than a little disconcerted by this break in custom: men do not spend time in libraries, not among the Haradrim. Libraries are for women, for those who keep the records and the genealogies which keep the Haradrim strong in the blood of Numenor. They are not for men, not for the warriors who prove their worth in blood spilled by the sword, not ink on pages.

(Technically, that means Jonquil should not be in the library either. But the whole family has agreed, loudly and often, that Jonquil will never be a man. Weak, womanly Jonquil: Jonquil who has not the strength to hold a sword, nor the courage to kill another man. As if Jonquil will ever join the ranks of the azgara and win the right to marry. Jonquil is a disappointment and a blot upon his family name, and he knows it well. The library is a good place for him to hide, and if anyone ever _does_ find him, well, what should they have expected of too-womanly Jonquil, but to hide in the library?)

Jonquil’s mother is equally perturbed at having her sanctuary invaded. “Husband,” she greets Ulbar, “what brings you here?” Her tone is not what you’d call pleasant, and Jonquil winces automatically – usually when she is speaking in that tone, it is to her youngest and least useful son.

“I bring news from those who went to Gondor,” Ulbar replies.

“So urgent that it could not wait until dinner?”

“Urgent enough, wife. They have found allies, those among the lords of Gondor who will turn their hands against their king, and furnish routes into the very heartland of the north.”

Zimraphel sighs. “Again I ask, why is this so urgent that it could not wait until dinner? The news is good, I grant you – surely this will teach those Balik-lai and their Kadar-lai adherents that we are in the right – but not urgent.”

“I was getting there,” Ulbar replies, tone all strained patience. “There are those among our leaders who think perhaps we have not enough intelligence about this Aragorn of the North. They wish to send one of our own people to his court, there to gain his trust and all his secrets, so that when we strike, in the fullness of our power, there will be no surprises, nothing to prevent our victory.”

“ _And_?” Jonquil shrinks down in his seat. That tone never bodes well.

Ulbar sighs exasperatedly. “Do not you see, wife? We cannot send one of the azgara – they are too obviously warriors of note, dangerous as sea serpents. Do we not train them so? But _we_ , wife, we have a son so weak and unfit for war, and yet clever as a woman. Let us bring Jonquil to the Aruat, before anyone else can propose some better spy, and let him gain his manhood and restore our family’s honor in the court of the northern king.”

There is a long pause. Jonquil holds his breath, thinking the plan through. There are no obvious flaws that he can see. He is so obviously weak and helpless, no one would ever think him dangerous; and yet, if his service in the way should be enough to raise him to the ranks of the azgara, to earn him the right to a wife and sons of his own blood, well, there is little enough that Jonquil would not do to earn that honor. It would be easy enough for him to spin a story to endear him to the northern king, of his own people’s despite for him, his weakness rendering him useless to his family and a disgrace to his blood. He could do this.

Finally Zimraphel speaks. “That is…not a bad plan, husband,” she says, and her tone is thoughtful, stripped of anger. “Indeed, should the boy succeed, it would bring honor to our family; his brothers would no longer fret that such a stain upon our blood will lower their chances of a good match. And even if he fails, well, a dead son is no blot upon our honor. He would not be the first of our blood to fall in battle, even such a subtle one as this.” She pauses. “At dinner, we will give this command to Jonquil. Go now to the Aruat; tell them our plan. Pharaz-aru will hear you, even if Gimil-aru has been corrupted by the soft words of the Balik-lai.”

*

Three days later, Jonquil is on his way north aboard a trading ship. Though he is not used to the sway of the ship, and is often seasick, still he is in high spirits. Here, at last, is the chance he thought he would never have: to become a man of Umbar, to earn honor for his family and maybe even a wife of high blood for himself. Surely, if he is partially responsible for the overthrow of the northern king, there will be honor aplenty for him and his family.

And, whispers a tiny, awful voice in the back of his mind, in Gondor there are male bards; it is well known. Maybe, just maybe, some of them will be kind.

*

Boromir looks at the stack of paper on Mardi’s desk in something like horror. “You have _how_ many applications for this new bodyguard of yours?”

“ _Hundreds_ ,” says Mardi mournfully. “Oh, some of them aren’t going to make it – too old, too young, too crippled (poor things), too related to Lord Marren and probably going to try to assassinate the queen – but by the Valar, I will be looking through this pile for _weeks_. No one told me running a bodyguard was going to involve so much paperwork!”

Boromir winces in sympathy. “The old and crippled ones can be support staff,” she says instead, “or ladies-in-waiting with a little defensive training; they’ll be so grateful for _any_ opportunity that they’ll be a very effective last line of defense, I should think.” She pauses, and lifts the first few papers off the stack, scanning them briefly. “And then I think you need a secretary.”

Mardi thunks her head gently on the desk, and Boromir laughs.

“Terrifying, isn’t it? Faramir wrote to me the other day saying he’s got a whole pack of them that follow him around, can’t get anything done without them. Give me an orc attack any day; at least I can _do_ something about that!”

Mardi grins up at her friend. “Tell me about it,” she agrees. “I never really paid attention to Father’s rants about the Guard’s bureaucracy – I was far too interested in the swordplay. Clearly I should have been more attentive!”

Boromir claps her on the shoulder. “Tell you what,” she offers. “Come down to the practice fields and let’s wear each other out, and then when you’re too tired to bite anyone’s head off, we’ll find you a secretary.”

“That sounds…good,” Mardi agrees, and stands, sighing as her back creaks. “Dear Valar, I have been at this desk for _far_ too long.”

“Poor thing,” Boromir says, unsuccessfully stifling most of a chuckle. “Come on then; Eomer showed me a new move he said he learned from the Dunedain. Best out of three touches buys drinks after?”

“Done and done,” Mardi agrees, and follows her friend out of the room, grinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I am using the Adunaic wordlist (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Vz03zIPUE1RYax7u_yQI6Kc7L2twc4_IzNJ3ssVhzhc/edit) for Haradrim words. My Umbar has two kings, Pharaz-aru and Gimil-aru (senior and junior/gold and silver), collectively called the Aruat. The Balik-lai (ship-people) are those who wish to open trade routes with Gondor; the Kadar-lai (city-people) are those who want to remain at peace and concentrate on building infrastructure and so on. Jonquil’s parents are both members of the Zigurunas, the followers of Sauron, who want to conquer Gondor. Azgara are warriors, men who have passed their manhood test.


	6. Pelargir

Faramir is, it must be admitted, a little nervous about his new posting to Pelargir. All his life he has been under his sister’s wing, under her protection (so far as that extended); and recently, of course, he has also been under Aragorn’s avuncular oversight. Now, in Pelargir, he can of course use the palantir to speak with his king – but the amount of help that Aragorn could send quickly is small, and Faramir knows that Aragorn is dealing with enough in Minas Tirith, and does not need to have to try to keep an eye on Pelargir, too.

So Faramir takes a deep breath as he and his escort enter the port city of Pelargir, and mentally girds his loins, and greets the governor of the city with as much courtesy as he can muster. The other man is, understandably, less than thrilled that the new Steward has been sent to Pelargir – after all, the governor is used to being the highest authority in his own city, and now there is this young upstart who outranks him considerably – but Faramir has brought a troop of good, loyal Guardsmen with him, and also Eowyn, who is not to be underestimated.

It turns out, to Faramir’s pleasure, that he doesn’t have to do most of the nitpicky work of governing Pelargir. It already has a governor, after all, and Lord Heiar is, to Faramir’s surprise and delight, both immutably honest and – insofar as anyone can tell – loyal to the new king. Under Heiar’s hand, the trade through Pelargir is taxed and moved on as quickly as possible, the people of Pelargir are ruled firmly but justly, and the Pelargir Guard marches the walls day and night, keeping their eyes wide open for the possibility of Haradrim corsairs. Faramir tells Aragorn as much through the palantir, and both he and Aragorn heave a great sigh of relief that here, at least, is a lord who will not be giving Aragorn any trouble. Faramir was not looking forward to the possibility of having to depost Heiar and take over the running of the city himself until Aragorn could find a better governor.

Still, it behooves Faramir to learn as much as he can about the trade which goes through Pelargir, both on land and on the broad Anduin, and he throws himself into the job willingly. It’s kind of fascinating, actually, to trace the lines of caravans across the width of Gondor, to see where the grain from Anfalas is eaten and where the ores of Lamedon are smithed. The fish from the coastline makes it all the way up to Erech; the textiles of Linhir are worn from Andrast to Minas Tirith. And then there are the fancier materials, on their way out to Andrast or south to Umbar: silks and rope from Lorien, pipeweed from the Shire. It’s a great and complicated web, and Pelargir’s crossroads is an essential part of it.

Faramir does not spend all his time studying trade routes, of course. When he can, he rides out with some of his Guardsmen, to speak with the merchants and villagers of the towns near Pelargir, sometimes ranging as far as the Serni River, or up to the Celos Fords. The people are, for the most part, contented: Lord Heiar rules all these lands, and he is fair and even-handed. Would that more were like him. Faramir is glad to have good news to send to Aragorn, that at least one of the lords of Gondor is as just a man as his king, and holds the port city in good hands.

And someday, Faramir knows, when he is older and no longer looks like a stripling boy, he may well need to run a city, or indeed an entire region of Gondor, and bring the lords of that region under his sway. Pelargir, with its loyal governor and steady trade routes, is good practice for that future day.

*

Eowyn is also having fun in Pelargir, though she spends little time bent over maps and trade agreements. Instead, she goes to parties, goes shopping in the most popular markets, goes riding with the lords’ bodyguards and practices with the city’s Guard. Everywhere she goes, rumors spring up around her, people muttering about her behind her back and sometimes – rarely – to her face, insulted by her dress or her actions or her words or, often, all three.

And behind Eowyn, always, are her shadows from the king’s new spy network. Not to protect her – oh, no, Eowyn of Rohan can protect herself, thank you very much, and is honestly looking forward to the day someone says something which she can take to the dueling courts, just for the fun of it – but to record and remember the people who find the idea of a woman warrior offensive. For while Eowyn is not the _only_ female warrior in Gondor, it cannot be denied that Boromir and Mardi and Gilraen are…soberer people. They wear trousers, and armor. They are blunt-spoken and talk of arms and tactics as the male warriors do. It is easy for the folk of Gondor to place them to one side, rightly or wrongly, as mannish women, women who do not act as women should but do so _consistently_.

And then there is Eowyn, in her long skirts with a sword belted over them. Eowyn, who flirts with handsome men (though there will only ever be Faramir in her heart or her bed). Eowyn, who speaks her mind on any occasion, and will create occasions if she must.

Eowyn the beautiful. Eowyn the noble. Eowyn the womanly. Eowyn, in short, the _terrifying_.

Eowyn quite likes being terrifying, really. Her brother could have told them that.

*

“How goes the city, my lord king?”

“Well enough,” Aragorn replies cheerfully. “The grumbling has died down a little since the lords went south. And Arwen’s bodyguard grows apace. What news do you have for me from Pelargir?”

“All is well here, my lord king; my lady Eowyn continues to scandalize the town, the more so as many of the younger noble ladies have begun to emulate her. Their fathers are horrified. Lord Heiar is, as ever, a rock upon which his city stands, and someday I shall hope to be as steady a foundation as he is. There is only one odd thing in recent weeks.”

“Ah?”

“Just yesterday a Haradrim ship came in to port, and on it was a young Harad man – Jonquil, I think his name was – bearing letters of introduction to you from his own kings. He will be continuing up the river tomorrow with the dispatch ship.”

“How fascinating. I had not thought the Haradrim so willing to send envoys – goodness knows the ones at court have spent as little time as possible in my presence. Perhaps there has been some change in leadership in Umbar. I will inquire.”

Faramir says his farewells a few minutes later, and sends his love to Boromir, but though Aragorn sees only the possibility of good news in this young Jonquil, Faramir is not so sure. Yes, this _could_ be a sign that Umbar desires closer ties with the new king in Gondor. And then again, it could be something else entirely.

Well, there is little enough Faramir can do about that _now_. But in preparation for the future…well, perhaps the city’s Guards would benefit from further training, and perhaps practice scenarios. It would not do to be caught unawares by raiders from the sea.


	7. Minas Tirith

Jonquil stares up at the white walls of Minas Tirith and cannot help but be the tiniest bit intimidated. To be sure, Umbar is a great city, walled and battlemented, with many warriors within it; but Minas Tirith has the look of a place which has seen war and survived it. And it is Jonquil’s solemn duty to see to it that the city does not survive the next war – or, at least, not with the same king on its throne.

The king himself, when Jonquil is shown into his presence, is also just the tiniest bit intimidating. Oh, King Aragorn is smaller than any of Jonquil’s male relatives, broad-shouldered behemoths that they are, but he wears his crown with an air of such utter confidence that it’s a bit overwhelming. He _looks_ kingly, stern but kind, and the woman seated beside him is one of unearthly beauty, though Jonquil has not yet adjusted to the way the women of Gondor go about unveiled in public, and cannot help wincing away from her bared face.

The king welcomes Jonquil to his court, offers him a place among the courtiers and invites him to dinner that very night, and Jonquil accepts gladly, joyful that his great commission will be so easily begun.

It is odd, however. Though many people stare at him, and whisper as he goes by, they are not commenting on his weakling stature, his unmanly interests. Instead they mutter only about his dark skin and bright eyes, his clothing so unlike their own. Perhaps in Gondor they do not know enough to see he does not wear a sword at his side as one of the azgara should, that his fingers are shamefully inkstained and his arms unused to war.

*

Mardi has never spent so much time around so many women. It’s easier than she expected, though; all of them want to learn to fight, passionately and desperately, and so all Mardi needs to do is separate out the ones who know a little from the ones who know nothing, and go from there. Many of them have never held a sword before, but that is fixable easily enough. Several actually have decent skill with the bow – hunting is a noble pastime, after all, and some of them have spent time at their fathers’ estates, where the customs of the city are less strictly enforced.

It’s tiring work, coaching them into shape, but she has help: Boromir, and Arwen, and Aragorn himself; Eomer, who has little enough to do most days; and five or six Guardsmen, her father among them, who think their compatriots’ insistence that women are unfit for war is nonsense. And tiring or not, the work is _good_. There is such pleasure in seeing another woman’s face light up in joy as she masters a strike or a block, the fierce energy that comes of finally doing something you have always longed to do. Mardi cannot help but think of the younger recruits as almost her own younger self – and if young Mardi never had a chance, she can at least give these bright-faced youngsters what she never had.

Mardi has found, in fact, that she quite likes teaching. It’s rather a surprise to her; she had thought she would grow frustrated with the bumbling of her new troops, angry with their lack of skill. Instead, she finds she enjoys showing them a trick of the blade, a stance, a block. It helps, of course, that her students hang upon her every word, repeat her motions as exactly as possible, take correction gladly. They practice until she almost has to force them to put their weapons down, and find her at dinner and in the baths to ask her questions. They look up to her, and that is something Mardi has never had before.

It is a heady thing, to be respected.

*

The one thing Mardi has _not_ grown unexpectedly good at, unfortunately, is her attempt at courting. Elia has made no mention of the gifts – though to be fair, Mardi was too nervous to append her name – and has not worn them or made use of them. It takes Mardi a while to screw up her courage, but finally she goes to the only person who might actually have good advice.

“Oh, my dear Mardi,” Arwen says sympathetically, and reaches out to lay a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I will help you however I can. Tell me, what have you tried already?”

Mardi tells her everything, flushing and staring down at her feet in discomfort, and Arwen sighs and pats her shoulder again.

“Mardi, dear, Elia is…not a warrior. Were she a warrior, the gifts you have sent would have been very appropriate – but as it is, she cannot use them.” Arwen pauses, and seems to think for a minute. “When I was, oh, seven hundred or so, there was a very lovely weaver who I wished to spend time with; and so I found for her the dyes which were the rarest and hardest to come by, and she was pleased with my gifts. Surely Elia would be pleased with threads of fine fabrics, or rare colors? And flowers, or fresh fruit, or honeycakes – those rarely go wrong.”

Mardi gapes at her queen. “You…a weaver? A _woman_?”

Arwen cocks her head curiously. “It is not uncommon among those elves who have not yet found their hearts’ mates to find pleasure with others. It is not as though I was betraying my beloved. He was not yet born, nor yet his grandfather’s grandfather.”

“Yes, but a woman,” Mardi says, baffled. Arwen laughs.

“Men are so…limited sometimes. Love is love, and pleasure is pleasure. What matters the body when the soul is beautiful?”

Mardi boggles. She can’t really help it: of all the things she thought Arwen might say, revelations about long-ago trysts with other female elves were _not_ on the list. Finally she shakes herself briskly, and turns her mind to Arwen’s actual, useful advice.

“Thread,” she says firmly. “I can do thread. Or, or fabric – Rian would know what’s best for a seamstress. I could ask her.”

“Indeed,” Arwen says approvingly, and then a runner sticks his head through the door and informs the Queen that her husband would like her presence in the council room at her convenience, and Mardi takes her place behind her liege lady and tries to put the whole conversation out of her mind until this latest crisis, whatever it may be, has been dealt with.

*

Elia is a little apprehensive when she receives another neatly-wrapped package labeled only with her name, but it is rude to refuse gifts, after all; and in any case, curiosity has always been her besetting sin.

When she opens the case, she finds a sturdy box, plain but well-made, and in it, silk thread – silk from _Lorien_ – in every shade and color of the rainbow. It is a princely gift, and there are several colors which she had despaired of finding for the queen’s next gown.

She takes a spool of thread out of the box and considers it carefully. Whoever is sending these has apparently gotten better at judging her tastes and needs. Interesting. _Very_ interesting.


	8. Sons of Numenor

“Tell me of Umbar, and the Haradrim,” King Aragorn urges Jonquil. “I know so little of your ways, though clearly those of Gondor are strange to you.”

“We are the true sons of Numenor,” Jonquil tells him proudly. “Only those of that high blood may rule our kingdom. My own blood is nearly a third Numenorean; my family is high in the ranks of the nobles of Umbar.”

“Fascinating,” says the king. He seems to think a minute, eyes on the ceiling as if tracing some invisible line, and then he adds, in a slow considering voice, “I cannot say I myself have more than three-quarters Numenorean blood; but then, the Dunedain must marry outside our ranks, now and again, or else we should fall to inbreeding and perish.”

Jonquil’s jaw drops. The king is still looking up at the ceiling, and Jonquil manages to get himself under control before Aragorn looks down. Still, he can’t help mentally boggling a bit. The kings of Umbar are lucky if half their blood is Numenorean! How can this northern upstart of a king have purer blood than all of Umbar?

Aragorn smiles at his guest. “But that is no matter, I am sure; surely there is more to Umbar than the blood of Numenor? You are a bard, I think; what is the literature of Umbar like? What songs do they sing?”

Jonquil suppresses a grimace. The king cannot know how much the questions hurt. “The men of Umbar are warriors,” he says, keeping his voice level with an effort. “The women of Umbar write our literature and our songs, and keep the records of our bloodlines, and preserve the blood of Numenor.”

“Preserve the bloodlines?”

“A fine warrior might earn the right to wed a woman of a higher blood,” Jonquil explains. “A warrior who does not excel will never have sons of high blood.”

The king considers this for a while, looking rather baffled. “But…then the women do not choose their own husbands? Or is it only that they prefer husbands of great valor?”

Jonquil is shocked. “ _Choose_? No, no; a husband or wife is chosen by the older, married women, those who keep the records, so that sons will be strong and daughters have high blood. Why, if men and women could simply choose their husbands and wives, as the common folk do, the blood of Numenor might die out entirely!”

“I see,” the king replies slowly. Jonquil rather thinks his words have not been well received, but that is only to be expected from a northern barbarian.

Though can a man of the blood of Numenor – of the highest blood Jonquil has ever heard of – be truly a barbarian?

After a long moment, King Aragorn says, “But I do not think you are a warrior, my friend? I have not seen you on the practice fields; you know you are welcome to practice with the Guard if it pleases you.”

“I am not a man of Umbar,” Jonquil says, keeping the bitterness from his voice with long practice. “I am too weak to hold a sword in battle. I write, and sing, as women do; and I will never slay a man and earn my place in the ranks of the azgara.”

The king looks almost sympathetic. “If it is the custom of your people, I will not speak against it,” he says, “but I cannot say that killing another man made me _more_ of a man than I was before. Rather the contrary. How can slaying another be anything but a waste of life?”

“But then,” Jonquil objects – he cannot help himself, “what _do_ you count as your manhood trial?”

The king laughs. “Well, when I was a little older than you, I was given the shards of my ancestor’s sword reforged, and told to come reclaim my kingdom! That was sufficiently terrifying; but also it meant that my mother, and my first teacher, thought I had grown to be a man, and a good one.” He shrugs. “I have killed men, and doubtless will again, but I am far prouder of the lives I have saved or made easier than I ever will be of those dead by my hand. I am the king. It is my duty and my solemn purpose to protect my people. If I do that well, I may account myself a man indeed; if I fail at that duty, then I could kill a thousand men and be no more a man myself than the lowest beast.”

Jonquil leaves the audience with his poor head spinning. The king is of high blood, and has slain another – he is a man, by every law and custom of the Haradrim, and more than worthy to be king of _Jonquil’s_ people. Three-quarters Numenorean! Such blood can only be dreamed of. And yet the king dismisses his high blood, swears that earning his manhood was no such honor. Northerners are mad, Jonquil concludes. The cold of winter freezes their minds, and takes their sanity from them.

Three-quarters Numenorean!

*

_Honored Father and Mother,_

_I write to you from the court of the northern king, Aragorn son of Arathorn and Gilraen as he styles himself. I have, as you hoped, ingratiated myself into his confidence, and he has held several audiences privately with me._

_He surrounds himself with unveiled women: his wife, who is very beautiful and is said to be a witch, the elven Lady Arwen; his wife’s bodyguard, Mardi of the house of Hallas, who is very fierce; and many others. He holds council with them as he does with men._

_The king has many fierce bodyguards, chief among them Boromir son of Denethor, who was a traitor to the city in the time of the rising of Sauron. It is odd indeed that a traitor’s son should stand at the side of the king; but all those I have asked say that Boromir is utterly faithful to his lord. The younger son, Faramir, has been made Steward after his grandfather and rules now in Pelargir. I do not know why the younger son was given the higher rank – perhaps this is a sign of the king’s folly?_

_I am an object of much curiosity at court, as the ambassadors from Umbar are not popular and do not attend often, but I am more available, and perhaps less intimidating. I have begun to cultivate friendships with those I think most advantageous._

_I hope you and my siblings continue in great health. I will do my utmost to bring our family honor._

_Your son,_

_Jonquil_


	9. Gifts and Songs

Mardi is as nervous as a virgin on her wedding night. Which, alright, that’s not the best metaphor, she knows, but _really_ , she’s never done anything like this before, and while Elia _has_ expressed pleasure – to Arwen – at the lovely gift of thread which she received from some unknown admirer, it’s one thing to send gifts anonymously, and quite another thing entirely to actually…well. Put yourself out there.

Still, Mardi has never been a coward, and would punch anyone who claimed she was, and so when Elia is done showing Arwen the most recent magnificent dress she has made – and Mardi will never not be amazed at the beauty Elia can create out of thread and cloth – Mardi draws her aside a moment, privately.

“I…” she starts, and words desert her for a moment. She holds out the package in her hands. “I thought,” she tries again, “this might be useful to you?”

Elia takes the package from her with a broad smile, and unwraps it carefully. The bolt of green wool falls out: close-woven, dyed so deep a green it’s nearly black, and, Rian assured Mardi, worth every copper she spent on it. Elia’s delighted expression gives credence to that assurance.

“This is _beautiful_ ,” Elia says joyfully. “Oh, the things I could make with this!” Then she looks up to grin at Mardi. “So it’s been you sending me gifts, then?”

Mardi flushes bright red and stares at her feet. “Yes,” she says softly. Now, she is sure, Elia will tell her that she is not interested in women, or even that if she is, a bodyguard is no match for a talented seamstress like herself.

Elia chuckles. “They’re all beautiful,” she says, “and you’ve gotten rather better at choosing them, my dear.”

“Arwen helped,” Mardi mutters. Elia laughs again. It’s a lovely sound.

And then Elia leans forward and kisses Mardi gently on the cheek. Mardi looks up in shock. Elia is smiling gently. “I like apples,” she says. “And purple flowers.”

And while Mardi is still trying to parse that sentence, Elia leans forward again and kisses her, very softly, on the lips, and leaves.

It takes Mardi several minutes to get her composure back. Apples and purple flowers, is it? Mardi can do that. Mardi can _definitely_ do that.

…She got a _kiss_!

*

Jonquil has heard many bards sing at the banquets in Minas Tirith, and most of them are male. He has not quite gotten used to it, but they are commoners, after all – it is not as though the _nobles_ are singing!

He is, therefore, shocked beyond words when tonight’s bard bows to the king and says courteously, “Perhaps his Majesty would care to join me for the _Lay of Gilraen Nazgul-Slayer_?”

Jonquil draws in a sharp breath. Surely the bard will be slain on the spot for such an insult! It is one thing for the king to put up with male bards in his court, but to suggest that he should lower himself so!

The king smiles. “I should be delighted, Curran,” he replies, and stands. Jonquil sits in stunned silence as the bard strikes his lute, and the king joins in on a song apparently commemorating the king’s own mother and her heroics at the siege of Minas Tirith twenty years ago.

He has a good voice, Jonquil has to admit. It’s a good song for him, too, well within his range, and his voice fills the hall. Several of the other guests join in on the chorus, and near the middle of the song, her Majesty Arwen joins in as well, singing the parts where Lady Gilraen speaks. It’s quite beautiful.

It could never happen in Umbar, and suddenly Jonquil knows that even if he succeeds in becoming a man by betraying this king to the Haradrim, even if he is honored by his family and married to a woman of high blood, even if everything he wants is placed in his lap…

He will never sing in front of a crowd of people who cheer for him, and applaud, and praise his voice and talent. Not in Umbar. Never in Umbar.

*

Mardi’s trainees notice that she’s in an abnormally good mood that week, and respond with outpourings of effort and enthusiasm. It’s very encouraging, really, to see them learning so quickly: already the future guardswomen have the basics of formation work down, and the gently-bred ladies who will be Arwen’s ladies-in-waiting and last line of defense are beginning to be able to apply their usual grace to the movement of their weapons.

Mardi is proud of her women’s army, proud of her place at its head, and prouder yet of the fact that she is the queen’s own bodyguard, recognized and respected and trusted with the queen’s very life. It’s heady stuff for the girl who fought so long to join the Guard.

Also, there are patches of purple flowers near the training grounds. If the recruits wonder why their normally grim-faced leader spends time every evening gathering flowers with a silly grin on her face, they are wise enough not to ask.

*

_Honored Father and Mother,_

_I remain perplexed by the northern king. He does not insist upon his rightful place and titles as one of the Haradrim would; he never boasts of the enemies he has slain or the great deeds of battle he has done, though I think he has been well blooded in many fights._

_Also, he is an accomplished bard and singer. The northerners do not seem to think this a scandal, and at banquets and the like he has been prevailed upon to sing ballads of the history of his people and especially of his mother, who is accounted a great hero. He seems to see nothing wrong with this, and enjoins his people to accompany him in this madness._

_Moreover, his wife, the witch Arwen, holds power in her own name, and Aragorn insists that she should be given all the respect and honor and obedience which he himself is owed. Surely this is a sign of the decadence and foolishness of the northerners, to let a woman speak in public as though she were a king in her own right. She goes unveiled among her people, noble and common alike._

_Some of the northerners see the king and his wife as the odd creatures they are, and do not trust them; but many of the common folk adore them and speak of them as kings of old come again, to restore Gondor to its former glory._

Jonquil puts down his pen and looks at the words he has written. They are all true, but there is nothing in them of his own honest feelings. There is no place for feelings in war, he knows, and this is war in all but name; but is it wrong to respect an enemy, when that enemy is as brave and noble as a man can be?

His father would call him a coward for his thoughts. His mother would call him worse than that. But is it so wrong for a king to hold his people’s safety above all other things?

Jonquil shakes his head and seals the letter. Such questions are for kings to ask, not honorless boys who cannot hold a sword.


	10. Obstacles

“ ‘But _why_ would we want the common folk to form militias? What if they attacked us?’ If they didn’t insist on taxing their subjects into abject poverty, that wouldn’t be a problem! How are the common folk supposed to protect themselves against bandits and orcs and raiders from the sea if they’re not allowed to arm themselves?” Aragorn is pacing the room agitatedly. Arwen sighs and shakes her head and puts down the mug of the herbal tea she has been drinking every day.

“Dear heart, I do not understand any more than you do. The elven folk would not allow their lords to become so over-powerful – not after the disasters which resulted the last time.”

Aragorn’s pacing grows faster. “Lord Eldahir actually told me I was ‘too young to understand’ and would know better when I was older!”

Arwen tilts her head curiously. “Isn’t Lord Eldahir only thirty?”

“Yes!” Aragorn flings his hands in the air, then sighs and sits down heavily in an armchair. “When my mother told me I was to be king of Gondor, somehow I did not anticipate arguing with _fools_ about things which even a child of the Dunedain would understand.”

Arwen sighs. “I admit that I did not quite think that being queen of Gondor would involve so many Men telling me to sit down and not worry my pretty head about things. You should be proud of me, dear; I have not yet either challenged any of them to duels _or_ let Mardi hit them about the ears, which she so obviously wants to do.”

Aragorn stifles a chuckle unsuccessfully. “Oh, Mardi. She is a good bodyguard for you – the way she glowers is such a good counterpoint to your smile!”

Arwen grins back. “She is a good friend and a good bodyguard, and I am glad to have her. And come, dear heart, think of it this way: we have more years ahead of us than these fools. Even if they stall and balk and refuse to hear us all their lives, still we will be here. Our reforms _will_ come to pass, though perhaps it will take longer than we would like.”

Aragorn smiles at her. “My heart, as ever, your wisdom comforts me. And I _will_ have these reforms passed, and I will have them soon. My council has forgotten many things, it seems, from the days when there were kings in Gondor, and one of them is this: the Steward was required to abide by the decisions of the council, for he was only the highest among many. But _I_ am by no means required to do as they suggest. I am the king.”

Arwen nods. “That is true, and indeed they have forgotten it. But go gently, my love, when you can; we do not need to make enemies of those who might see reason if it is presented gently.” She shrugs. “Those who will hate you whether or not you are as kind as can be – let them go to Umbar if it pleases them, or Rhun, for you are king in Gondor and that shall be so for many years to come.”

*

Boromir is beginning to make headway. Three mornings a week, now, she trains with the City Guard, and she knows that Eomer does the same on other mornings, though they do not go together. At first, she was greeted with jeers and accusations of any number of insulting things – from being actually a eunuch to having slept with the king to earn his favor. Ignoring those insults was an interesting challenge, and Boromir is actually rather proud to have mastered it.

The more often she showed up, though, the less they jeered, because Boromir is, without any boasting, a very, very good warrior. Between her own inclinations and Aragorn’s training, and the years with the Rohirrim, she can best all but a very few of the Guard on a regular basis, often two-on-one or more, and the few that are near her level, she defeats at least one bout out of three.

And when she is not fighting, she is boasting – not of herself, no; she has no need to boast of herself. She boasts of Mardi, fierce Mardi; of Eowyn the beautiful and terrifying; of the women of the new bodyguard, working ferociously to learn the arts of sword and bow and dagger.

It is growing harder for the men of the Guard to tell her that women should not be warriors, when she is a better warrior than many of them have ever hoped to be. Some of the men who remember Mardi and her yearly attempts to join their ranks have begun to chime in with stories of the brave women of Gondorian history, of Lady Gilraen and of Primrose Axe-Maid, of Morwen Steelsheen who could not live without a sword in her hand and went to Rohan to become a queen of shieldmaidens.

Boromir is quietly proud of her little campaign. Maybe it will not bear fruit immediately – there are still plenty of men in the Guard, especially the nobly-born officers, who think that women should not bear arms – but slowly but surely, she is beginning to make a difference. Someday, she hopes, she will come to practice with the Guard and find another woman there, in the Guard’s uniform, and no one will so much as bat an eye. That will be a good day indeed.

*

Jonquil is not having fun in Minas Tirith. It is so very, very different from everything he has ever learned to expect: the unveiled women, the men who are not warriors, the singing king and his beautiful, sorcerous wife, the utter lack of any interest in the blood of Numenor and its high calling. No one here looks askance at him if he enters the library; some of the librarians are even _men_! Women bear arms and stand in the place of honor to guard the queen. It is so utterly chaotic and unfathomable that sometimes he cannot even bear to leave his room, but sits staring out the window at the bustle of the city, the unfamiliar colors and unaccustomed scents and harsh Westron shouts, and thinks that he might weep.

The worst of it, though – the absolute worst of it is that he is beginning to _like_ Gondor’s unmanly king. That by the laws of Umbar, Aragorn is the right and proper king – the proper king of the Haradrim, too, by his high blood – and more than that, he is _good_ at it. His followers love him. His queen dotes upon him, and that is strange indeed to Jonquil, who has never heard of a woman of noble blood _choosing_ her own husband. The old women, the keepers of the records, choose husbands for their daughters and nieces and granddaughters, matching high blood to great valor in equal measure that the race of the Haradrim might grow strong.

Aragorn is kind, and clever. He sings, and never boasts of the men he has slain. By the customs of Umbar, though he is a man, he is a most unmanly one – even great deeds would not earn him a high-blooded wife if his oddness were known. But the more time Jonquil spends with him, the more Jonquil begins to believe that Aragorn is actually a _good_ man, maybe even a great one.

And if there is a great man with the blood of the Numenoreans as strong in him as a river, should that not be Jonquil’s true king?

*

_Honored Father and Mother,_

_I find the King Aragorn to be an honest and a confident man, sure of himself and willing to make enemies in order to push through his reforms. Perhaps this extends even unto the battlefield; though as he has neither dueled nor gone to war during my stay thus far, I could not say for certain. Indeed, the Gondorian court holds few duels, and those in great secrecy, for the king likes them not, and frowns upon the duelers as though they were naughty children, not grown men defending their honor._

_Gondor is a strange place, and its people hold strange customs, entirely unlike those of Umbar…_


	11. West of the Anduin

(A selection of raven-borne letters from the desk of Lady Gilraen)

_Andrast has a bandit problem the likes of which I have never seen, but one particular town’s people appear to have learned to fight from one of the Dunedain, well before my arrival. The town has prospered since ‘Strider’ came through and taught them formation fighting. Other towns in Andrast are much more amenable to being instructed in defensive maneuvers now that Mefnil has demonstrated their efficacy. I will be in Andrast some time, I think, and would appreciate a few more Dunedain here to help train the people. The people have heard that his Majesty intends to raise militias in every town, but I am not sure they believe it._

_*_

_Anfalas is peaceful, for the most part. I have found most of my time given over to training those who wish to learn in healing and in literacy. Word has spread that the king intends to send teachers and healers to every village, and the people are very excited about this possibility, but rather skeptical of its truth. It seems they do not trust their lords to allow teachers, healers, and militia trainers into the villages. My reassurances are met with cynicism and a sort of weary hope._

_*_

_In the cradle of the White Mountains the people remember a man named Strider who helped a village recover from a great flood. They are willing to do many things which they say they did not do before he came, because he and his hooded companion were as messengers from the Valar, and so I find that they are inclined to trust me simply because I am a Ranger. This is a great boon to me, as the people are poor and ill-treated, and do not like strangers. Their lords tax them harshly, and often they have little enough food to feed themselves, much less a visitor; I hunt often, and leave what I cannot eat with whoever looks hungriest. Ask the king to put pressure on the lords of this land, of your courtesy; for surely such unhappiness and poverty is a blight upon the lands of Gondor._

_*_

_The people of Belfalas are rather unsure about their new liege, as they are beholden to Lord Heiar of Pelargir, or to the Prince of Dol Amroth, who are known to be good lords. The taxes are lighter than they are elsewhere and the magistrates are relatively just. However, the Lord Faramir’s presence in Pelargir and his frequent trips out of the city are beginning to turn people’s minds towards the king, and his promises of teachers, healers, and militia trainers are commonly well-received. The Prince of Dol Amroth, however, will not meet with the Lord Faramir; it is said that the Prince’s daughter died birthing the Steward, though I do not know the truth of that rumor._

*

Mardi is cautiously pleased with Elia’s reactions to her gifts since Mardi took Arwen’s advice. Certainly Elia seemed more than pleased with the thread and the cloth, and Mardi has given her bouquets of purple flowers and baskets of ripe apples, and gotten kisses and broad smiles in return. But as far as Mardi has been able to determine, through eavesdropping and asking some of her older trainees, the proper way that someone being courted shows their willingness to continue is to reciprocate, and kisses don’t count.

Mardi is stubborn and not given to despair, and she is perfectly willing to bring Elia gifts for as long as Elia is happy to accept them, but there’s a bit of a difference between applying to the Guard every year despite repeated rejections, and bringing gifts to the lady of your affections without any sign of reciprocation.

On the other hand, Mardi’s first few gifts weren’t great, she’s willing to acknowledge that, so perhaps Elia just wants Mardi to prove that she’s learned her lesson and won’t give her any more inappropriately warlike presents. Today’s attempt ought to be one Elia will appreciate, so Mardi has hope.

*

Elia smiles down at the plainly-wrapped package. Mardi is a dear sweet thing (well, to Elia; she knows Mardi is not nearly as sweet to most people) and the flowers and apples are certainly to Elia’s taste. She knows she’s taking a while with her return gift, but she wants it to be perfect – surely that is worth a few more days of waiting?

Today’s gift, opened, is full of seed pearls, in every shade from purest white to that perfect dusky black that only pearls can be. Elia gasps aloud, and glances around to make sure no one is near enough to hear. She doesn’t want to share this with anyone, not quite yet. It is exactly what she needs for one of the queen’s dresses, and surely Mardi knew that, which means that Mardi took the time and effort to go down into the city and find _exactly_ what Elia needs.

How very sweet. Elia glances over to the stand where her gift to Mardi is taking form, and pledges to herself that she will let nothing stop her from finishing it as soon as possible. Mardi deserves to know that Elia is _more_ than happy to be her more-than-friend.

*

_Son,_

_Your information on the court of the upstart northern king and his wife has been invaluable. The Aruat agrees that, should all go well, you will earn your manhood before you return to Umbar; and so I have been in consultation with your grandmothers on the subject of a wife for you. Already we have found several prospects._

_If all goes well, you will be home within the year. Be ready._

_Your mother,_

_Zimraphel_

Jonquil puts down the letter and stares at it for a while. He isn’t ready. He might never be ready. Can’t they wait a while longer while he figures out how he actually feels about King Aragorn and his strange wife? Can’t they wait while Jonquil explores the city and learns how its people think and act and interact?

Well, no, they aren’t going to wait while one useless son gets his act together, and Jonquil knows that this sort of self-pity is unbecoming a son of Umbar.

Very well, then. He will be ready. Even if Aragorn _is_ a good man, and a good king, and entitled by blood to Jonquil’s fealty, still, Jonquil is a son of Umbar and he will be a man of the Haradrim, if he is faithful to his family and his kings and his people. He will be ready.


	12. Up the Anduin

Faramir does not usually contact Aragorn through the palantir outside of his monthly reports, which means that when he does so, Aragorn knows even before Faramir speaks that something is horribly wrong.

“My lord,” Faramir says, and his face is drawn and strained, “the towers report a fleet approaching the mouth of the Anduin from the south: Haradrim corsairs, dozens of them. I have ordered the Guard to assemble and begun to gather the people within the walls. Shall I prepare to attack?”

Aragorn thinks for a long moment. The sensible thing to do would probably be to stop the fleet at Pelargir, send as many men as possible down to break the inevitable siege, and hope for a decisive enough victory that the Haradrim would retreat for a time. But Aragorn is not willing to settle for a temporary truce.

“No,” he tells Faramir. “Guard the walls; bring as many people within them as you can, and prepare for a siege, but I do not think they will stop at Pelargir when they could have Minas Tirith. Once they are past, fortify the banks: I want anyone coming down the river stopped. But let them come up.”

Faramir nods, but his expression is very worried. “My lord, I will – but are you _sure_?”

Aragorn smiles at his young friend’s face in the crystal before him. “I have a plan,” he says. “Never fear.”

*

“Man the walls,” Faramir orders. “The king commands we let them pass, but if any of them try to retreat again, we are to stop them. Prepare fire arrows, and make sure we have men on the walls day and night.”

“Sir,” says the commander of the Pelargir Guard, and Faramir leaves him to it and heads for the citadel at the center of the city. He and Lord Heiar are going to have ever so much fun figuring out how to house and feed all of the people from outside the walls, but Lord Heiar has contingency plans for everything.

And if worst comes to worst, Faramir will be on the walls with the Guard, and Eowyn beside him, and die defending his kingdom. But he is hoping, very hard, that his king’s clever plan, whatever it may be, succeeds.

*

“You are absolutely certain?” Aragorn asks the man in front of him. The man nods vigorously.

“I have seen it with my own eyes,” he promises. “The supply lines stretch from Lord Marren’s new lands up nearly to within sight of the city – if the Emyn Arnen hills were not in the way, you could see them on a clear day even across the river.”

“Well done,” Aragorn tells him, and then, to the spymaster standing behind the man, “Double his pay, whatever it is. This information is more valuable than I can say.”

The spymaster and his man bow and withdraw, and Aragorn turns to Arwen.

“Do you think we can do this?”

Arwen smiles smugly. “Your plan relies on the stubbornness of Mardi, the loyalty of the Rohirrim, and the courage of the City Guard. I think, my lord husband, that the Haradrim fleet is in for a nasty surprise.”

*

“Men of Gondor,” Aragorn says that evening, standing in front of the ranks of the City Guard, “we are attacked. Even now a Haradrim fleet approaches up the Anduin. They can come no farther aship than the Fords of Emyn Arnen, and so tomorrow, at first light, we will march to the Fords.” He glances from one man to another, noting their fierce expressions and their firmly-held formation.

“With you beside me, I need have no fear,” he continues. “Together, we will teach the men of Umbar that it is not wise to assault Gondor; that they had been far wiser to go about poking wasps’ nests with sticks, or invading the caves of mother bears, than to attack us.”

The men cheer, and Aragorn smiles. “Go home,” he tells them, “eat well, sleep deeply. Tomorrow we march, and we will return victorious!”

*

Jonquil watches Aragorn’s speech from a window above the courtyard, and there is fear in his heart. He cannot tell whether the fear is for his people, who come to face these grim-faced men in battle…or for proud, doomed Aragorn, who cannot know the forces he faces.

Surely it is wrong to mourn the death of an enemy, but Jonquil cannot celebrate Aragorn’s coming demise, though he knows he should.

Tomorrow will come too soon.

*

Theoden emerges from his private chambers with a strange look upon his face. Theodred, worried, follows his father down the hall to Morwen Steelsheen’s rooms, and Theoden allows him do so.

“I go to war,” he tells Morwen when she looks up from her sewing. “I am summoned by our ally, Aragorn of Gondor; I must go at once.”

“How many men will you take?” is all Morwen asks in response, but then she is a warrior herself, wife and mother to warriors.

“Half the host,” Theoden replies. “Aragorn asks no more than that, and I will not leave you undefended.” He looks over at Theodred, then sighs and reaches over to pull his son into his embrace. “If I should not return, you will be king,” he says, and Theodred winces.

“Do not tell me you expect to fall, Father!”

Theoden laughs. “By no means,” he assures his son. “But I go to war, and in war there are none whose safety is assured. I will of course return to you if it is at all possible – I have no desire to die in battle. But you must know that if I fall, you are my heir, and so while I am gone I expect you to aid your grandmother in her duties as she watches over the kingdom.”

“Father, I will,” Theodred promises; and three days later, his father and half the host of Rohan is gone, south and east towards Gondor.

Morwen watches them go, and sighs. “Now let us hope they arrive in time,” she says softly. Then, shrugging off her melancholy, she turns to her grandson. “And in the meantime, I think you should be spending a little more time hearing complaints and criminal cases. It’s a vital part of ruling.”

“Grandmother!” Theodred complains, and she leads him off to his fate with a faint smile.


	13. Night March

Mardi is not expecting to see Elia now, not on the eve of Mardi’s departure on her king’s orders. Still, it’s a pleasant surprise, and she welcomes the other woman into her rooms eagerly enough.

Elia is a little flushed, and has something bulky in her hands wrapped in plain brown fabric. “I heard you were leaving,” she says, and Mardi nods.

“Tonight,” she replies, “and I cannot tell you where.”

“I know better than to ask,” Elia says calmly. “But I did not wish you to leave before I gave you this.” She holds out the package. Mardi takes it carefully, heart suddenly full of hope.

*

Elia is not really nervous about the gift itself. She is the queen’s own seamstress, after all; anything from her hands is going to be perfect. She is nervous, instead, about the gift’s reception. It has taken a while for her to give it, after all; what if Mardi has grown weary of waiting?

Mardi unwraps the package gently, shakes out the folded cloth within it, and draws in a sharp breath of awe. “It’s _beautiful_ ,” she says softly.

The cloak is long and heavy, made of the dark green fabric Mardi bought for Elia weeks ago, embroidered down the inside in patterned links until the cloth looks like chainmail. There are pockets along its edges, reinforced to hold whatever Mardi might need, and the whole is warm and comfortable and perfect for a night march into danger.

Mardi looks up from her cloak and there are stars in her eyes. “It’s _perfect_ ,” she adds, and puts it on. It suits her perfectly. She spreads her arms, showing off her newest and most cherished piece of clothing. “How does it look?”

Elia does not answer in words; instead, she steps forward and kisses Mardi firmly on the mouth. Mardi wraps her arms around her, and they stand there under the cloak together, clinging to each other, for long and lovely moments. Finally Elia pulls away.

“I know you go to battle,” she says softly. “But come back to me, Mardi Queensguard. I have not put so much effort into a cloak that I should be happy to lose its wearer.”

Mardi grins down at her. “I shall return to you so long as life and breath remain in me,” she promises. “And I am hard to kill – and harder with your kisses to remember. Let the enemy fear Elia’s lover, for I shall be as dangerous to them as I am devoted to you.”

“So they should fear, indeed,” says Elia, and kisses Mardi again, just to make sure.

*

Any other army, Mardi is sure, would be grumbling and griping at a night march without a clear destination. Her women, however, are as eager as can be: finally, a chance to prove themselves! Mardi has promised them that at the end of their marching, there will be battle, and they are ready for it.

They march east, to the ruins of Osgiliath the great, and cross the bridge over the mighty Anduin. Mardi is proud of her army: they are swift and silent, eyes bright in the darkness and hands on swords. Only when they are well out of sight of Minas Tirith, even in the broadest daylight, does Mardi turn them south.

They reach the foothills of the Emyn Arnen near dawn, and make cold camp. “No fires,” Mardi commands them. “Keep your voices low, and do not venture onto the tops of the hills. Act as though there is an enemy over every rise, and if he hears you, we will all die – for that may well be true.”

The women nod solemnly, and disperse themselves well. Mardi watches them conceal themselves under bits of scrub and bush, sharing cloaks and body heat willingly, and curls herself into the warmth of her new cloak, and waits.

*

Arwen has never liked waiting, and she likes it still less now, as she sits on the throne beside her husband’s empty seat and hears petitioner after petitioner begging to know that the city will be safe. Of course, she promises them, of course the city will be safe. Is not Aragorn a mighty warrior, son of Gilraen Nazgul-Slayer who saved Minas Tirith twenty years ago? And are not the men beside him the very flower of Gondorian manhood, trained and talented and well-armed, brave and true to the last man? Of course the city is in no danger.

And, to be fair, that is quite true, though it is not merely the men of the Guard who stand between Minas Tirith and the invading army. Arwen knows far better than to say that, though – is she not the daughter of a warrior race? Was Glorfindel himself not her teacher; did Galadriel herself not train Arwen in statecraft? No secret can be discerned behind Arwen’s serene face, her steady voice. No spy, no loose-tongued fool will be able to glean anything from her demeanor save utter trust in her husband and the Guard.

Which she has. Just…not quite the way the people of Gondor are made to believe.

And every evening she bends over the palantir, speaking for hours with Faramir about worst-case scenarios, because she must. Because Aragorn charged her, before he left, with the safety of his kingdom, and she will keep Gondor safe for her king and love even if he never comes home to see it. Not that she is afraid that Aragorn will fall – he is hard to kill, and she does not expect him to lose this battle – but it is her honor and duty to preserve her husband’s kingdom for him, and she will do so, whatever the cost may be.

Plans to evacuate the city, to flee west to Erech leaving a skeleton crew to guard the walls and pretend the city is alive, to run a queenship-in-exile and a full-out war against the Haradrim…they are not pleasant conversations, but they must be had. 

At night she lies awake in the too-big bed which ought to have her husband in it, with her hands crossed over her stomach, and thinks about a conversation she had with Bilbo Baggins nearly a year ago now.

“I don’t know that these will work for elves,” he told her solemnly, “but when hobbits are having a bit of trouble, you might say, having as many children as they should like, well, the lady will make a tea of these and drink a mug of it every day, and by and by there’ll be fauntlings – or dwobbits, as the case may be – running about underfoot.”

Arwen had nodded, and taken the herbs, and she has been careful to drink a full mug of the mixture, despite its slightly sour taste, every evening since she married Aragorn. And now there is a stirring within her, such as she has never felt before.

If this has worked…if a hobbit’s herbs have kindled her womb so swiftly, and against all expectation, and she bears a healthy child in twelve months’ time, she will tell every elf in Middle-Earth this great secret, spread the news of these blessed herbs as far as word will travel. If this works, the debt that Bilbo bears her father will be erased as though it never was, and every elf in Middle-Earth will praise his name and sing his deeds until the end of time.

If this works, Arwen will have as many children as her husband could desire, and she will be the most blessed elven woman in a thousand thousand years.

Please, she asks the Valar every night before she slips into fitful sleep, please let this work. Please.

And bring my husband safely home.


	14. The Fords of Emyn Arnen

Jonquil stands beside King Aragorn and watches the Haradrim fleet approach up the Anduin. They are under oars, of course, and moving slowly, as the Anduin’s current is strong and the winds blow west, not north. Aragorn does not seem at all distressed at the sight, though there are many more Haradrim than there are Guardsmen.

Finally Jonquil can contain his curiosity no more. “Your Majesty, are you not worried?” he asks. “There are full three times as many Haradrim as you have men beside you!”

Aragorn smiles, though his ever-present guard Boromir remains as stone-faced as ever. “I am not worried,” he says merrily. “I repose full confidence in the men of Minas Tirith.” He turns to Boromir. “I think they will reach us tomorrow, if they are wise, yes?”

Boromir nods. “No sense in them disembarking so late in the afternoon, and tired from the oars. No, it’ll be tomorrow morning, my lord.”

Aragorn nods. “We’ll make our stand here, then; tell the men, and have them set watches.”

Jonquil gapes. “You’ll all be _slaughtered_!” he says as Boromir turns away. “Half of your men have never seen battle – every man of the azgara is blooded!”

Aragorn just smiles. “I have every confidence in my people,” he says. “Trust me to know what I am doing.”

“I do trust you, o king,” Jonquil says, and the awful part is that it is true: he trusts Aragorn to be a kind and just monarch, a man to whom one can reveal one’s secrets without fear, a king, indeed – but, apparently, sadly, a king for peacetime, one who cannot be trusted on the battlefield without a minder, one who thinks that this…gaggle of Guardsmen can best twenty ships’ worth of blooded Haradrim azgara.

“Trust me, then, in this,” Aragorn says, “as I trust you.” He tilts his head a bit, as if thinking, and then draws a dagger from his belt and holds it out to Jonquil. “Here,” he says. “You will be beside me in the commander’s group; it would not do to have you without a weapon. This one has served me well for many years; may it serve you well now.” Then he turns and strides away after Boromir, leaving Jonquil staring after him with a dagger in his hand.

It is a well-made blade, he sees as he finally tears his eyes away from Aragorn’s retreating form. It is not fancy, but well-weighted and with a fine edge. And he will be beside Aragorn in the battle.

Aragorn is a fool, he sees that now. A fool – and Jonquil twice a fool to have been thinking that this northern idiot was a true king of Men! Jonquil looks south at the fleet fighting its way up the river, and thinks to himself that it would be hard indeed to tell, in the chaos of a battle, whether the northern king fell to the blade of a man of Umbar from in front…or from behind.

*

Boromir has every confidence in her king _as_ a king, and as a commander on the battlefield, and as a good man. He is probably the best man she has ever met, even including her own beloved Eomer, who, while himself a very good man indeed, does not quite have the same supernatural…whatever-it-is which makes Aragorn a friend to all races and a king made in the manner of the mightiest kings of old, even unto Elendil himself, progenitor of his line.

She does _not_ have all that much confidence in his current choice of companions.

“He’s one of _them_ , and you have just put him at your back with a _dagger_!” she hisses to Aragorn, furious enough to disagree with him in public, even if she is keeping her voice down.

“He is a good man,” Aragorn replies serenely. “I trust him.” Boromir glares until Aragorn shrugs and adds, “Besides, there is nothing for him in Umbar. They think him useless and unmanly – his own family have nearly disowned him. But there _is_ a place for him in my court, and I think he sees that well enough.”

“Blood is thicker than water,” Boromir growls. “We are fighting his kinsfolk – who is to say he won’t have a sudden attack of loyalty to Umbar, even if he would regret it later?”

Aragorn is still smiling, damn him. “I trust him,” he says again, and Boromir does not curse her king for a fool. She does not.

“I _don’t_ ,” she says. “You may trust him as much as you like, but I am the head of your bodyguard for a _reason_ , my king, and I do not trust the lad so far as I could throw him.”

“You could throw him a fair way,” Aragorn observes mildly, and then, in the face of her worsening glare, sighs. “Look, if you are so worried, you may stand right beside him and keep your eyes on him; I will be perfectly safe unless everything goes utterly wrong.”

“I will do that,” Boromir promises, and finally stands aside to let Aragorn cross over to the commanders of the Guard. It isn’t a perfect solution – she will be distracted by the noise of the battle, she knows, and in any event stabbing someone doesn’t take very long, and even a few seconds of distractions might be enough to let the Haradrim boy do some serious damage – but it’s the best she’s going to get, she sees that clearly enough.

“I wish Arwen were here; she’d talk sense into him,” she grumbles under her breath, and follows her king into the commanders’ tent to talk tactics.

*

Faramir leans on the battlements, looking north, with Eowyn beside him. It is a cool night and the breeze is actually a little cold for comfort, so they stand close together with his cloak over them both, staring into the darkness.

“We will know soon enough, I suppose,” Faramir says at last. “Lady Arwen says she thinks it’ll all be over by this time tomorrow night.”

“I _hate_ waiting,” Eowyn mutters. “I became a shieldmaiden so I’d never have to wait for news of a battle again. At least if you’re in it you know if you’ve won!”

Faramir snorts. “Well, you’ve a better idea, anyhow,” he agrees. “I can’t say I like waiting much myself.” He sighs. “Every time Boromir goes into battle without me, I wonder if she’d have a better chance if I were with her. I know she’s better than anyone has any right to be, but even the Valar can’t see everything at once.”

Eowyn rests her head on his shoulder. “Eomer will protect her,” she says softly. “And she will protect Eomer. And when the battle is all over and they are safe in Minas Tirith again, I am going to ride north and fuss over them _both_ until they don’t know what’s happened to them.”

Faramir laughs into her hair. “Truly are you named Eowyn the Terrifying, my love,” he tells her. “Surely that is a dire threat indeed!”

“Don’t you laugh, heart of mine,” Eowyn warns him. “I know your weak spots.”

“So you do,” Faramir agrees. “Far be it from me to laugh at you, my dear. Your tickling is worse than orcish blades.”

“Wretch,” she grumbles, and pokes him in the side, and they both double over laughing on the parapet. Some ways away, a pair of guards glance at each other.

“Must be sure the king’ll win, laughing like that,” one observes. The other nods.

“Find out tomorrow, one way or another,” he agrees, and they turn again to their watch.


	15. The Battle Begins

Jonquil has never been near a battle before in his life, though he’s heard his father and brothers speak of ship boardings and skirmishes, and now that he’s seen one, he never wants to see another one again. The noise is horrendous, screams and shouts and the clash of weapons on armor. The smell is worse: coppery blood with undertones of horrid things. The sight is…indescribable.

He cannot even quite tell what is happening, not the way King Aragorn and his guards clearly can. They speak to each other often, calling out as they point from one end of the battlefield to the other, but all Jonquil can see are hundreds of men straining against each other, swords flashing in the early sunlight and the bright horrid red of blood over it all. He sees one Guardsman die, slipping in the filthy mud beneath his feet and falling into the blow from his opponent, and doubles over retching behind the king. One of the guards catches Jonquil and pulls him to one side, holding him up as he rids himself of what seems like a month’s worth of meals, and then hauls him upright again.

“There now, lad,” the man says, and Jonquil realizes that it is the Rohirrim man Eomer, a good friend of the king’s and often seen in company with Boromir. “Your first battle?”

“Yes,” Jonquil says, and spits to clear his mouth of the awful taste. “Is it always like this?”

“Aye,” Eomer replies grimly. “Stay here within our circle, lad; you’ve no place in this mess.”

Jonquil would be offended, but he is too busy trying not to be ill again. _This_ is the glorious birthright of the Haradrim? _This_ is the manhood trial he will never pass? Suddenly Aragorn’s words come back to him: “I cannot say that killing another man made me _more_ of a man than I was before. Rather the contrary. How can slaying another be anything but a waste of life?”

Aragorn is wiser than he thought.

But even as Jonquil thinks that, he sees that the Guard are being pushed back, their line retreating step by step before the onslaught of the Haradrim. As he told Aragorn yesterday, there are too many Haradrim for the Guard to defend against; three-to-one odds are not kind to the weaker side. He glances away from the battle, towards the river, not wanting to see more brave men fall, and sees an odd thing.

“What is _that_?” he cries, and points to the east, where a column of smoke rises across the river, stark against the blue sky.

Aragorn looks where Jonquil is pointing, and actually claps his hands together in glee. “Ah, Mardi!” he says joyfully. “Well done, Mardi Queensguard!”

It takes Jonquil a moment, and then it hits him. “The supply lines,” he cries in shock. “She has burned the supply lines!”

“And so she has,” Aragorn agrees. “Which means…”

He cocks his head towards the west, and Jonquil looks in that direction, straining his eyes and ears to tell what Aragorn is waiting on. There is a low sound, audible even over the roar of battle, like thunder far away…

The Rohirrim come over the low rise to the west like the hammer of Aule, striking the side of the Haradrim army where it is caught between the Guard and the river. Three thousand horsemen, at a full gallop, well-trained, well-armed, well-rested, and ready for battle: such a charge is sung of in legends, but not often seen.

Jonquil gapes in blank astonishment for long, long moments.

This…this was _planned_. Planned long before the Guard set out from Minas Tirith. How soon after he heard of the fleet must Aragorn have sent to Rohan for their aid? How carefully must he have planned for Mardi and her forces – the queen’s all-female bodyguard, it could be no one else – to have left Minas Tirith when the Guard was gone? What _else_ has the king planned: a sally up the river from Pelargir? Elves from the north?

But, watching the battle, Jonquil can see clearly enough that Aragorn needs no other plans. The Rohirrim have broken the Haradrim’s battle lines, driving them back against the river ruthlessly, and up to the eastern bank of the Anduin march women in full battle gear with arrows drawn. Mardi is at their head, helmet gleaming like a star, and Jonquil stares as she shouts orders to her troops, who stop and kindle small braziers, and bend to light their arrows.

…Fire arrows, Jonquil realizes slowly, to burn the ships of the Haradrim to the waterline. There will be no escaping down the river, not for the azgara of Umbar; and Jonquil knows as well as any Haradrim that surrendering will not come easily to the bold men of Umbar. They will fight to the death, and two thousand men of the Haradrim will die here, caught between three forces and the river, and the terrifying mastery of war which belongs to the King of Gondor.

…And he thought Aragorn a fool.

*

Mardi is proud beyond words of her women. They stayed silent for two full days, waiting in the foothills of the Emyn Arnen, and then, when the black ships had nearly reached the fords, they crept, low and quiet, through the hills to watch the supply caravans camp. There were very few guards: who would attack a supply caravan _now_ , with all the Guard across the river?

And at dawn they descended, like wolves, from the hills, and Mardi watched her troops cut down half-sleeping guards and sack the camp with great pleasure. They took prisoners when they could: men of Gondor, from the southern lands where the lords were banished, and men of Umbar, baffled and horrified that their well-armed captors were _women_ , of all things, and most important of all, the five Lords whose banishment set this whole mess in motion. Oh, how they squalled at their capture – but Mardi’s women would have none of it, but bound and gagged the traitors and dragged them along. And then they burned everything that would burn: carts and wagons, flour and dried meat, spare arrows and spears, everything which could _possibly_ burn was tossed onto the flames. The smoke was a beacon in the still air.

And now Mardi stands at the edge of the Anduin, watching the Haradrim be cut to pieces by her king’s men and the Rohirrim, and waits patiently for her women to finish lighting the braziers and preparing their arrows. There is little hurry. This is merely adding insult to injury, in a way, for if any Haradrim _do_ escape to their ships and down the river, Faramir is waiting at the mouth of the Anduin, and he will be more than glad to stop them.

But still, this is Mardi’s duty and her pleasure, and at her word her troops begin to fire, aiming first for the furled sails of the black ships. The flames leap up swiftly – the black color, Mardi thinks, might well be tar – and a great cry goes up from the Haradrim, a cry of horror and despair.

Mardi’s women meet the cry with their own shout of triumph, and Mardi joins it, cheering her people and her king at the top of her lungs. The Guard raise their own triumphant shout, and Mardi cannot help but gloat a little: the women under her command have saved the Guards, and they know it. There will be no saying that women cannot be warriors _now_.

And then she cries out again, her voice lost in the tumult, and points, wildly, knowing that no one will see in time.


	16. The Battle Ends

Jonquil is still staring at the female archers in blank disbelief when he sees their leader, Mardi Queensguard, switch all of a sudden from a cheer of triumph to an expression of utter horror, and point frantically in Jonquil’s direction. She cannot be pointing at him. Jonquil turns.

Behind him, coming down from the north, is a squad of Haradrim azgara, faces grim. The king’s guard are all facing the battle; only Jonquil sees the new threat. He could say nothing. He could let the azgara close with the king’s guard, let the Haradrim bring triumph out of the black defeat of this day.

He does not even quite know why he does not.

He cries out, loud and shrill, and draws the little dagger which Aragorn gave him. Beside him, Eomer starts and turns, and then the Rohirrim’s voice is ringing out over the battle: “To arms, Boromir, to arms!”

The azgara charge, their stealth abandoned, and Jonquil finds himself at the center of the knot of fighting. Boromir Kingsguard and Eomer stand side-by-side before him, their swords like twin windmills, flashing in the sunlight, and the rest of the king’s guard draws about their lord, swords out, in a fierce circle.

One man slips past the warriors, swift and silent as the night, and Jonquil makes his choice. The azgara has not noticed him, save for a quick dismissive glance: presumably he knows who Jonquil is, Ulbar’s disgraced and useless son, and knows that Jonquil is no threat. Up until a very short time ago, his assessment would have been utterly correct.

Jonquil knows that Aragorn is a good man. He knows Aragorn is a good king. He knows, now, that Aragorn is a great commander of men, a battle leader such as warriors dream of. He knows that Aragorn is of the high blood of Numenor. And he knows that Aragorn trusts him.

His dagger takes the other Haradrim under the heart, slipping between the ribs with hardly a thought. The azgara cries out in disbelief and slumps to the ground, and Jonquil falls to his knees beside his first kill, staring at the fresh corpse in shock.

The noise of battle fades a little, and Aragorn is beside him, a gentle hand on Jonquil’s shoulder. “Thank you, my friend,” Aragorn says softly, and Jonquil looks up into kind eyes.  
He holds out the dagger, bloody as it is, hilt-first. “My king,” he says to those eyes, to this great man, “accept my fealty, I beg you.”

Aragorn touches the hilt of the dagger gently. “I accept it,” he replies. “There is no need to beg.” He glances up to where Boromir and Eomer are cleaning their swords, and pulls out a handkerchief, handing it to Jonquil. “Come, clean your weapon,” he adds. “Today you are a warrior. Let it be the last time you have need to draw a blade in anger.”

Jonquil takes the handkerchief and rises, slowly. Eomer, on his way to the king’s side, claps him gently on the shoulder. “That was well done, lad,” he tells Jonquil softly. “We’re in your debt.”

Jonquil nods and does not know what to say. Today, he is a man.

Today, he has betrayed his people.

And yet…looking at Aragorn standing tall above the battle, clear voice shouting commands to his men, Jonquil cannot quite muster the correct amount of horror at his own actions. He shrugs and sheathes the dagger at his side. He has chosen his king, and sworn his fealty: now there is nothing to do but follow the path he has laid out for his own feet.

As paths go, the one which follows Aragorn son of Arathorn and Gilraen is not such a bad path at all.

*

Aragorn keeps his guards around him as he descends onto the battlefield. Boromir would throw an almighty fit if he did not – and Aragorn is not _actually_ such a fool as to trust a defeated enemy. But the Haradrim army is broken, decimated or worse.

Aragorn had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that they would break and surrender, but many of the Haradrim warriors had thrown themselves onto the weapons of the Guard and the Rohirrim, clearly knowing they were doomed and simply hoping to take a single enemy along with them. Jonquil, beside Aragorn, had dropped his head into his hands and sighed, but clearly been unsurprised by the sight, and when Aragorn asked, explained, “Haradrim azgara do not surrender. It is not done.”

Aragorn would, perhaps, have liked to know that a little earlier. It might have meant that this day would be less of an unnecessary and altogether unpleasant bloodbath. Still, between the Guard and the Rohirrim, and Mardi’s women setting the ships aflame, there is little doubt as to which side has won this battle, even if the Haradrim continue to fight long after they are defeated.

Finally, when there are very few Haradrim left on the battlefield, and even fewer unwounded, they begin to give back to the shore, to lay down their weapons and refuse to engage. Aragorn calls the Guard back, letting their enemies retreat, and orders his men to bind their wounds, find food and fires, and begin to make preparations to bury their dead. The Rohirrim on their tall horses encircle the Haradrim as they retreat, and finally Aragorn himself goes down to speak to whoever is left in charge of the Haradrim army. He has Jonquil with him mostly in order to point out rank markings and other signs of command – Aragorn is sadly unfamiliar with the insignia of his enemies.

“There, with the green on his sleeves,” Jonquil says eventually, and then, slowly, “His name is Uri.”

“Do you know him, then?” Aragorn asks softly as his guards begin to clear a path between Aragorn and the Haradrim commander.

“He is my brother,” Jonquil says, and steps forward before Aragorn can reply.

“Hail to the king by right of blood and victory!” Jonquil cries, and Aragorn watches curiously as the Haradrim look up at Jonquil in blank astonishment, and then give back, bowing their heads to Aragorn in what looks like respect, not fear. Aragorn is wise enough to step forward into the moment, down the pathway they have cleared for him.

“What was that?” he murmurs to Jonquil.

“The traditional greeting to a victorious king,” Jonquil replies just as quietly. “We are no strangers to civil war, my lord.”

“Ah,” says Aragorn, and steps forward to greet Jonquil’s brother. This is not the time to wonder at Haradrim culture. Boromir would not approve.


	17. Hail the Conquering Hero

Arwen is waiting at the gates when the Guard returns with Aragorn at their head. Perhaps she should not be – perhaps she should be in the throne room, presenting an image of cool competence and unwavering calm – but her husband is returning from war, and she will greet him at the gates and be damned to anyone who says her nay.

Aragorn is well, thank the Valar, well and hale and smiling. The Guard – some are injured, yes, though fewer than Arwen had feared, and they march with pride in their deeds. The Rohirrim ride alongside them, and Mardi’s women are interspersed with the Guardsmen.

Her husband is home triumphant and unharmed, and Arwen cannot remember being happier.

*

Aragorn finally gets to speak to his wife privately that night, long after the speeches and the feasting and the endless toasts are done. He has missed this, these quiet hours with Arwen turning over the day together; he has missed her, desperately.

She tucks herself against him on the long couch beside the windows, and sighs contentedly. For long moments neither of them speaks: a time like this, with their bodyguards out of the room and no urgent issues to discuss, is precious beyond measure. Finally Arwen breaks the silence.

“I spoke to Faramir as soon as your messengers arrived, of course, but they could tell me little but that you won. Tell me of the battle, of your courtesy.”

Aragorn sighs. “It went as well as any battle can go. You know I would prefer never to see my people march into danger. But the Rohirrim arrived in perfect time, and Mardi’s women performed their tasks admirably. They captured all the lords who were a part of this conspiracy, and I have sent them south with their Haradrim allies. I will not have them in my lands.”

Arwen smiles. “Any other king would have slain them,” she points out.

“I do not know that sending them south was _merciful_ ,” Aragorn replies. “But I had rather never order the execution of a citizen of Gondor. And killing a lord, even a treasonous one, is a risky thing.”

“There’s that,” Arwen agrees. She takes a deep breath. “Most of this will be hashed out in council,” she says at last, “but there is something I must tell you, though I ask that you not speak of it in public for a while.”

“I will not, until you tell me,” Aragorn promises, and Arwen cannot help but smile at the worried look on his face. She takes his hand and places it gently on her still-flat stomach.

“I am with child,” she says, and watches his whole face light up with joy.

*

Mardi sees to it that her women go to the healers, and sends them home – or, more probably, down to the many inns which will be more than happy to pour a drink for the victorious warriors – with many words of praise and pride. _Her_ women burnt the supply lines and the ships; _her_ women stranded the Haradrim forces in the open; _her_ women captured the traitors and brought them to justice. She is rightfully proud of them, and they walk straight-backed and tall into the city, and the people stare at them in awe.

And when the last of them has been settled in the healers’ halls, or wandered down to see if a man of Rohan or the Guard will buy them a drink – or vice versa – she goes swiftfooted through the halls of the palace to Elia’s quarters.

Elia is waiting for her. She has wine and fruit and all manner of good things on the table, and a comfortable chair pulled up beside it; and in other times, Mardi would probably fall upon the food with glee, because she _is_ hungry, and waybread and dried meat do not fine meals make. But first she has a more important thing to do.

She pulls Elia into her arms and kisses her, and Elia throws her own arms around Mardi and kisses back eagerly.

“I came back,” Mardi says eventually, when they pull away from each other a little. “Though I fear my fine cloak has been a little battered by its first mission.”

Elia just grins up at her. “I can fix it,” she says mildly. “I had rather it be damaged than you, my dear.”

“I am well,” Mardi promises. “Better now that I am with you.”

Elia blushes. “You have gotten better at compliments, dearest,” she says. “Come; let us not waste the food. And then, if you need not wait upon her Majesty, I would be pleased if you would stay the night.”

Mardi goes very red. “I would be honored,” she replies, “though you must know I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“I had gathered as much,” Elia grins. “Never fear. _I_ know what I am doing.”

“Then I shall follow your lead gladly,” Mardi says, and kisses her again.

*

“What news from Minas Tirith?” Eowyn demands as soon as Faramir steps out of the private room he uses for the palantir.

“The king is victorious!” Faramir replies, picking her up and spinning her around until her skirts fly. “The Rohirrim turned the tide of battle, and the Haradrim are most thoroughly defeated. Her Majesty knows little more, but she promises that Aragorn will tell us the rest once he returns to the city.”

Eowyn laughs and kisses him. “Put me down, you ridiculous man,” she orders, and kisses him again when he does. “That is finer news than I have heard in many months; may it be followed by more, and often.”

Faramir nods. “May the Valar hear that,” he agrees. “I shall go and stand down the guards – no point in keeping them on high alert. May I send you to give the good news to Lord Heiar?”

“I go at once,” Eowyn replies, and they part, grinning.


	18. The Long Road Home

Ulbar is waiting for his son at the edge of the city when Uri finally makes it home. In other circumstances, Uri’s return at the head of an army, as the commanding officer of that army, would be cause for rejoicing.

The army has barely five hundred men left in it, most of them wounded, all of them exhausted. They are Haradrim, masters of the sea: a months-long march through desert lands is not an easy thing to them. They are dusty and weary and their azgara pride is broken, and there are far too few of them.

Ulbar winces when the army is finally close enough for him to see its true devastation. Two thousand of Umbar’s sons, high-blooded and courageous, azgara with their manhood trials safely passed, sailed north six months ago; and now so few return, with not even a victory to give them pride. True, the northern ambassadors told the Haradrim as much when they arrived – true, the black ship of Umbar which returned without its companions carried Gondorian envoys and their hard words, and not the sons of Umbar – but it is one thing to hear of a far-off defeat, and yet another to see your son lead home the failed warriors.

Uri bows before his father and gestures to the men behind him. “Here are the men of Umbar who went north,” he says. “I bring also the men of the north who aided us, and are now banished.” Indeed, there are five pale men in too-heavy clothing in among the Haradrim, sunburnt and miserable. Ulbar nods.

“Stand and wait,” he says. “Gimil-aru will come to you.”

Uri blinks in surprise. “Gimil-aru?”

Ulbar grimaces. “Pharaz-aru has lost much power,” he tells his son grimly. “Do not expect the courage of Umbar to be as it was in prior days.”

Uri shakes his head. “So the damned land-grubbers have taken over,” he says sourly. “And – though I hate it well – I cannot tell Gimil-aru that we were defeated by bad luck or foul weather. No, the northern king, may his line be destroyed, planned better than we did, and by some magic summoned the horsemen of his neighbor kingdom to his aid without our knowledge. The honorless man even had his women go into battle, and destroy our supply lines and our ships. We were defeated in battle, and not by the will of the gods.”

Ulbar spits into the dust. “So his envoys said,” he replies. “I hoped it was a falsehood, but if my son tells me the same, it must be true.” He glances out over the ragged ranks. “Your brothers?”

Uri shakes his head. “They had the honor of the left flank,” he says. “The horsemen came down upon them before they could even turn to do battle. Yozay and Zamin are gone to crew the ships among the stars. I saw them honorably burnt before we left.”

Ulbar does not weep. Men of the Haradrim never do. Instead, he turns away for a moment, and when he turns back, there is no sign of grief upon his face. “And Jonquil?” he asks.

Uri spits. “He stands at the side of the northern king,” he says. “He calls him conqueror and high-blooded, and sings his praises. He is lost to us.”

“Would that he had died at birth,” says Ulbar tightly, and then the gates are opening and Gimil-aru emerges with his sycophants, and there is nothing more to say.

*

Aragorn receives the envoys he sent south gladly. They traveled in the only black ship which Mardi’s women did not burn, and though the men of Gondor are perhaps not so skilled as the men of Umbar, still a ship’s journey is swifter than that of marching men. It seems scarce days since he finally saw the backs of the Haradrim army, banished southward along the eastern bank of the Anduin with half a cohort of Rohirrim to see to it that they make no threats against the people of Gondor.

The envoys bring promises of peace from the rulers of Umbar, and word that trade negotiations are a definite possibility for the future. Jonquil reads every word of the contracts and treaties, and finally looks up and gives a crooked smile.

“My king, it seems to me that these are as honest as any treaty could be; but see here and here. Gimil-aru signs first, you see? That is unheard of. Pharaz-aru is the senior king, the one who makes the hard decisions. For Gimil-aru to be the first signer, that says that the Balik-lai and Kadar-lai have defeated the Zigurunas in court.”

Aragorn nods slowly. “And so if the Zigurunas should gain power again?”

Jonquil shrugs. “Then these treaties will mean nothing, o king. My father is high in the ranks of those who wish for war. These treaties – they are paper and ink. He would burn them as soon as read them. My mother, perhaps, would keep them – to preserve the paper so that it might be re-used. But the content of them, the peace they promise, that she would burn willingly enough.”

Aragorn smiles crookedly. “Then I shall have to see to it that the Balik-lai and the Kadar-lai stay in power, I suppose. The trick I used in this battle is not one which would work twice, and it is hard upon my people to call them out to war. I should far prefer trade to battle.”

Jonquil looks down at his hands. “And I,” he says softly, “for now that I have seen battle, I cannot call it glorious; though it shames me, I cannot say that having killed a man has given me anything, but only taken from me something I shall never regain.”

Aragorn pats his young friend gently on the shoulder. “So does battle take many brave souls,” he agrees. “If I have my way, you need never lift a weapon again; for I have far more use for one who knows Umbar and its ways, and may advise me on them, than I do for another sword. Do I not have Boromir, and Mardi, and the Guardsmen and the women’s army?”

Jonquil grimaces a little. “I wish,” he says plaintively, “you had mentioned sooner that Boromir is not a man. I called her so, after the battle, telling her she had earned her manhood ten times over – I meant a compliment, you know – and she laughed until she nearly fell over.”

Aragorn shakes his head and laughs. “She prefers it this way,” he says mildly, “and I am not such a fool as to gainsay her on this matter. Would you?”

“Not for all the gold in Umbar,” Jonquil says vehemently. “Do I look like I wish to die?”

Aragorn’s laughter rings through the halls, and Jonquil cannot help laughing along with his king. “Truly, there are some battles it is wiser not to fight,” he agrees ruefully.


	19. The Succession Secured

“If this is the wonder of childbirth,” Arwen says tightly, “I have much more respect for hobbit women who do this so often!”

The midwife chuckles and pats her hand. “It’s going well, dearie,” she promises. Mardi, who is pacing near the wall, grits her teeth. What good is a bodyguard here? But then, what good would she be _outside_ if someone decided that this was a good time to assassinate the queen?

Outside the bedroom door, Aragorn is, to put it kindly, a nervous wreck. “Elves don’t give birth easily!” he tells Eomer, who pats him gingerly on the shoulder. “What if something goes _wrong_?”

Eomer shakes his head. “I know as little of this as you do, my king,” he says, “but the midwife is the best in Gondor. She will tell us if anything is wrong. Arwen is strong, you know that. She’ll be fine.”

Aragorn runs his hands through his hair again – it’s a complete mess, and his fastidious valet would have fits if he saw it – and sighs. “Nothing’s gone wrong at court?”

“Nothing,” Eomer assures him. “Boromir sent a runner up just a few minutes ago. The ladies of the court send their good wishes for Arwen’s health; that is all the news there is.”

Aragorn grins weakly. “I shall have to thank them for their kind words,” he says, and then there is a loud cry from within the bedroom. Aragorn whirls to stare at the door; Eomer puts a firm hand on his shoulder to keep him from charging into the room.

There is another cry, Arwen’s full-throated battle challenge, and then a third: high and thin and strong, a baby’s first wail. Aragorn gasps and sags, and Eomer holds him up.

The door opens, and Mardi peers out. “They’re fine,” she says. “The midwife says you can come in now.” Aragorn rushes past her without even a by-your-leave, and she steps out into the corridor and grins at Eomer. “I’ll just leave them be,” she says, and leans back against the wall. “Thank goodness _I’ll_ never go through that! It looked _awful_.”

Eomer grins back. “I do not think I shall be so lucky as to be allowed to wait outside, should Boromir ever do me the honor of bearing my children. She will probably want me right beside her, so she can punch me whenever she wants to!”

*

Aragorn looks down at the tiny creature in his arms, still red from the birthing, and cannot stop grinning. “She’s perfect,” he tells Arwen, who grins back weakly. “She’s _wonderful_.”

“She’d better be, as much effort as she took,” Arwen says, but she holds out her arms anyhow. “Here; let me hold her.” Aragorn hands the baby over very carefully, and the midwife grins behind her hand. King or commoner, new fathers are not so different.

“Silmarien,” Arwen says after a moment, studying her first child. “We will name her Silmarien.”

“Silmarien,” Aragorn agrees instantly. “My daughter and my heir.”

*

Yozayan leans forward curiously. “So we should not compliment the king on his battle prowess?”

Jonquil shakes his head. “He will not take it as a compliment. He had rather be told that his people look prosperous and happy, or that the roads are well maintained, or other such comments on the kingdom. He is not azgara at heart, you see.”

“But he is a warrior king. He defeated two thousand azgara in fair battle!”

Jonquil shakes his head. “It is hard to explain,” he tells the Haradrim ambassador. “He does not think like one of the azgara, like a noble man of Umbar. He was not raised as we are, to dream of a high-blooded woman won through great deeds. He was raised to think first of his people, and to value them above all things.” He shrugs. “I cannot say that it has not made him a better king. Umbar might be better off if the Aruat thought first of those who make their bread.”

Yozayan winces, but Jonquil has pretty much resigned himself to speaking treason regularly. He killed the man who would have killed the king of Gondor: after that, saying that the Aruat are doing a bad job is less of a huge issue. What else can they do to him, after all? He is disowned and exiled, or so he gathered from the rather incoherent letter his mother sent him months ago.

He sends Yozayan off with a few more words of advice. It’s nice to feel like a person of worth, someone whose words are of value, and to the Haradrim ambassadors, and the council of lords, he is just that. The lords want to know everything about Umbar; the ambassadors want to know how to speak to Gondorians. Jonquil, in the middle, with his book-lined office and his title of Haradrim Expert (a silly title, but it pleases the king), is very happy. He can read and write as much as he pleases, and no one calls him weak or unmanly. Even Boromir has stopped looking sidelong at him.

And there is a woman of the Dunedain, tall and dark and beautiful as all their women are, who lives in the palace and handles the ravens who bear messages from Lady Gilraen in Erech. She seems to like Jonquil, as a friend at least, and they have spent many evenings walking along the battlements of the city and speaking of far-off lands and cultures strange to each other, trading stories and laughing together. Her name is Cidwen.

*

_Dearest Father,_

_I write to you with the very best of news. I have borne a daughter, fair as dawn, and we have named her Silmarien for the queen who should have been. Valar willing, and she being suited to it, she will reign when my husband no longer sits upon his throne._

_I know that for one of our race to bear a child so swiftly is odd indeed, and so I must tell you the great secret I have borne along with my daughter: the advice of Bilbo Baggins, and the hobbit-grown herbs which he provided, are almost indubitably the reason for my daughter’s quick conception. I have enclosed a description of the herbs and the tea they are made into, which is taken once a day._

_Father, if this works for those of fully-elven blood as well as it did for me, this is a gift beyond price. Surely we have done ill to ignore the hobbits for so long, if in their small wisdoms they have found this remedy for our great sorrow._

_In joy and love I remain,_

_Your daughter,_

_Arwen_


	20. The Reign of the King

Boromir’s wedding is a small affair, three months after the birth of the Princess. There are very few people there: her brother and Eowyn, Aragorn and Arwen, Mardi and Elia, a few of the women of the army and the friends she has made in the Guard. She wants it that way; it’s actually quite useful having half the nobility not quite sure whether she’s female, and in any case she’s never gone in for pomp and circumstance.

And Eomer is as handsome and charming and wonderful as he has always been, and she is glad to put her hand in his and swear before her king and all her friends that this will last until death. She has no fear that it might not: Boromir Kingsguard has never failed at anything she set her mind to, and she does not intend to start now.

*

“In short,” the lord at the head of the table says with a sigh, “it’s hopeless.”

The lord to his right nods glumly. “If we _did_ manage to…remove…his Majesty, there’s the Dunedain all over – Valar only know what _they’d_ get up to.”

Another lord tugs irritably at his beard. “And I _met_ the Lady Galadriel – I don’t want to think about how she’d react if her precious granddaughter was killed! Sorceresses, the lot of them.”

The first lord spreads his hands wide. “And there is Rohan to consider – I do not think Theoden of Rohan would be kind to those who overthrew one he counts as friend – and then, of course, the Haradrim corsairs are held from our shores by fear of the King alone.”

The lord at the foot of the table puts his head in his hands. “Must we then accept these…mannish women, and foreign witches which that madman insists upon surrounding himself with, these unseemly reforms and wild notions he so loves?”

The other lords shrug, and sigh. “We may argue, of course; there are things he cannot do under the law, and he has shown he abides by the law – but I cannot see any way to stop him, not without bringing the wrath of many nations down upon our heads,” the leader says wearily.

“Then we will argue,” says the second lord, but there is no hope in his voice.

The maid who has been refilling their wine glasses, eyes downcast and demure, smiles a little to herself, and makes careful mental notes for her report. So the lords have finally given up on their assassination plans, have they? That is good to know. The king – or at any rate his spymaster – will be glad to hear it.

*

Faramir leans back in his chair and sighs contentedly. “As much fun as I had in Pelargir, it’s good to be back in Minas Tirith,” he tells Aragorn, who smiles.

“Don’t get too comfortable, my friend – I’m sending you to Dol Amroth next. I want you to visit all of the major cities at least once in the next ten years or so.”

Faramir nods his understanding. “The governors won’t all be as good as Lord Heiar, I know that. We’ll have to figure out what you want me to do when the lord of a city turns out to be a bad apple.”

Aragorn nods wearily. “But that is for tomorrow – tonight we have talked enough, and I know Boromir is eager to spend time with you.”

Faramir stands and bows and leaves, and Aragorn eyes the pile of papers Faramir brought home with a sort of exhausted happiness. As far as Faramir has been able to tell, these past months in Pelargir and its surrounding lands, the reforms are beginning to take effect. Some of them will not truly be useful for months or years yet – it takes _time_ to train healers and teachers, bards and militia commanders – but there is hope in Gondor now, for a better future.

The lords may be wary, after Aragorn banished the five traitors to Umbar, but the common folk hear the changes which have already been made, look at the decrease in their yearly taxes, and learn to love their king.

*

Mardi has not become a Guardswoman, it is very true. Even two years ago, that might have enraged her. But today, standing beside her Queen and watching _her_ women, _her_ army sparring in formation with the City Guard, listening to the surprised murmurs of the Guard Commanders as they note how well-trained, how eager and strong her women are, Mardi cannot feel anything but pride.

She is not a Guardswoman. She is Mardi Queensguard, leader of the women’s army of Gondor, and she stands here warm in the chilly air because her cloak was made by her own true love, and this is better than she ever dreamed her future could be.

*

It is on their ten-year wedding anniversary that Arwen binds her life to her husband, relinquishing her immortality. They have two children by then, Silmarien and young Elendil, bright clever little things that everyone adores. Ten years, Arwen thinks, is long enough to judge a king.

Oh, she knew Aragorn the man full well before she married him – she would not have married him if she had not known him so well – but a man may change when he is given crown and throne and power. Arwen is practical – it is a good counterpoint to Aragorn’s trusting, optimistic nature – and so, practically, she has waited this long to see if power is going to go to her husband’s head, if her true love will be corrupted, as other good men have been before him, and turn to foolishness and cruelty. She will not give Gondor, her country by oath if not by birth, over to a mostly-immortal tyrant, and if Aragorn had become such a thing, she would not bind her life to him.

But he has not been corrupted, and will not be, not though a thousand years go by. He is still the same loving, trusting, good man that she has loved for so many years. He is her king and her love, the father of her children and the treasure of her heart, and so ten years from the day she marries him she cuts her hand and binds her blood and life and love to him forever.

It is a decision she never regrets, and tales are told for Ages onward of Aragorn the Ageless and his Queen, Arwen Evenstar, most beautiful woman in the world, and the love which bound them all their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is the end of this story. Thanks, as always, to my Best Beloved, the most wonderful beta and brainstorming partner a writer could want. Thanks also to everyone who left comments or kudos: you make my day!
> 
> There will be more Coats & Customs. I will start posting the next story, gods willing and the crick don't rise, on Monday the 4th of November.
> 
> Thank you all for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [To the Nines](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1216972) by [Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw)




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